


His Princess

by LitRaptor42



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU where David isn't such a pushover, Angst, Charming Family Feels, Daddy Charming feels, F/M, Family, Fluff, Gen, Tiny Emma literally kills me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-01-21 15:56:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitRaptor42/pseuds/LitRaptor42
Summary: AU where David went through the portal in 6x17 and raised Emma as a single dad. (Because I like fixing things.)





	1. Prologue: Boston, MA - 2011

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teamhook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamhook/gifts), [haunted-nymph](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=haunted-nymph).



All she can think about is how badly her feet hurt, and how she can’t wait to get out of the stupid shoes she’s been wearing for eight hours. Emma Shepherd groans and hauls herself up the last flight of stairs, clinging to the banister with one hand and the pastry box with the other.

The front door is locked, so she digs into her bra for the key. Her fingers, still cold from the chilly night air, fumble the little piece of steel, and she almost drops it. The man’s words keep running through her head over and over again. _What do you know about family?_ he’d sneered at her.

“More than _you’ll_ ever know,” she mutters viciously to herself, and turns the knob to enter the cramped little apartment.

The hallway smells gloriously of meat and spices and butter. With relief, she kicks her shoes off, the heels thudding carelessly against a pair of David’s boots as she slams the door. She stands for a moment, wiggling the feeling back into her toes and sniffing at the delicious aroma. Then she arrows down the hallway toward the cramped little living room. “Dad, you still up?” she calls softly.

No response; but as she rounds the corner, she can see the glow of the television.  Emma sets the pastry box on the kitchen counter and tiptoes into the living room.

The television is silent, but tuned to some kind of nature show, as usual.  Her father is leaned into the corner of the couch, an empty plate in his lap as he sleeps.  Emma smiles at the peaceful look on his slack face, her anger melting away into tenderness. He’d gotten up before dawn that morning for work, and she knows he has to do it again tomorrow.

Taking the plate gently from his lap, Emma tiptoes back into the kitchen and sticks it in the dishwasher. The oven is on, left on a low warming temperature, and she peeks inside to discover the source of the smell: a beef pot pie with a flaky crust.  Her mouth waters, and she reflects briefly, with gratitude, just how convenient it is to have a father who knows his way around comfort food.

She shuts the oven door with a sigh, turning back to the kitchen. She doesn’t have the heart to wake David, but… he won’t mind. He can (and undoubtedly will) sing for her later, and she wants a moment alone. Flipping open the lid of the pastry box, she pulls out one of the two cupcakes, and reaches for the small box of candles.

A scratch, a flare of light, and the candle is lit. She sets her chin in her hands, staring at the little flame. Beyond the kitchen, she can see the two bedroom doors, and the bathroom nightlight. Her father’s room still has a leak over the window, while the shelves in her closet have been broken for months.  The bathroom floor is so crooked that you can roll a marble from one end to another just by setting it down, and the tub has never really drained.

But then she turns her eyes back into the kitchen, to the beat-up knife block David found at a yard sale last year; his humble little collection of pots and pans hanging above the stove; the cheap framed flower prints they picked out at a farmer’s market downtown; and even the clumsy wooden clock she made him back in high school, still keeping time after twelve years and what seems like a hundred moves.

Emma feels a sudden stab of guilt and painful love, and smiles. “Another banner year for the Shepherds,” she whispers, tears pricking at her eyes, and blows out the candle.

A loud, abrupt knock sounds at the front door, making her jump.  Emma straightens up, adrenaline thrilling through her.  Her first frightened thought is that it’s I.C.E.; but after a moment’s silence, her terror begins to fade a bit. Immigration officers would have continued pounding, and yelling, to boot.

Taking a deep breath, she stands up from the counter and tiptoes to the door. She peers out the peephole; no one to be seen. Emma frowns, and hesitantly cracks the door open.

Still no one there. But then she looks down, and simultaneous relief and astonishment gushes through her. “Hi,” says the small boy standing on her doormat, and grins cheerfully. “Are… you Emma Swan?”

Emma gapes. “I… used to be,” she answers after a moment, warily glancing around. But it doesn’t seem like any federal officers are getting ready to pounce in from the stairwell. “Who are you?” she adds, frowning again.

“I’m Henry,” the kid says, looking up at her with eager, slightly desperate eyes. “I’m your son.”

She freezes, staring at him. Raising his eyebrows, the kid looks around her into the apartment, then gives a little hop and sidles right past her.

Dazed, Emma shuts the door behind her and follows the kid as he troops right down the hallway and into her kitchen, looking around with great interest. His gaze takes in the worn barstools sitting at the kitchen island, the pictures on the walls, the ugly beige-brown carpet of the hallway. “Wait, kid,” she says insistently, her tongue finally finding itself. “I don’t have a son. Where are your parents?”

He turns around, mouth pursing, and hesitates. “Ten years ago, did you give up a baby for adoption?” he asks at last, then hops up onto one of the barstools, and adds, “That was me.”

Emma feels as if she’s been sucker-punched, her vision whirling and her stomach painfully clenching. She opens her mouth, only to find that no words will come.  Her whole body is screaming for her to flee.

There’s a sudden squeak of springs, making her jump yet again; then there’s a long sigh, followed by a groan. “Emma?  You home?”

Her father comes out of the living room, grimacing and stretching.  Still stupefied, Emma notices for the first time that he’s still wearing his work coveralls, ‘James’ stitched across the nametag. He stops, blinking at the sight of the small child in his kitchen. “Who’s this?” he asks reasonably, a smile creeping across his face as he glances to Emma.

Emma feels her hands trembling, and clenches them to make it stop.  “This is… Henry,” she stutters, and clears her throat. “Dad, I…”

“I’m her son,” Henry says again, and grins up at her father, swinging his feet on the high barstool. “I guess… that means you’re my grandpa?”

David’s brows shoot up, and he blinks again. But he just chuckles, still wearing the gentle, tired smile of a man who was his feet from dawn to dusk, and is going to do the same thing in a few hours.  “You don’t say,” he remarks, crossing his arms.

“Uh-huh,” says the boy, then adds seriously, “Do you have any juice?”

* * *

“Emma, sweetheart. It’s all right,” David says gently, as she clings to the edge of the counter and stares blankly into the mirror. She’d given the kid his requested glass of juice, then retreated to the bathroom, her father following close behind.

“No, it’s _not_ all right,” she hisses, glancing at the door to make sure the boy isn’t eavesdropping. “I can’t—what does he want? My God, I thought he was I.C.E. again, Dad! He has no idea what he’s getting into if he wants to be a part of this family—”

She breaks off, choking down the panicked sob in her throat. “Oh, honey. Come here,” he father says gently, and draws soothing hands down her shoulders, chuckling. Emma closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and lets him hug her. David was there holding her hand when she decided to give her baby up for adoption: he knows precisely what she’s going through.

At least when it comes to little Henry, anyway. He has no idea how terrible her day has gone otherwise. It isn’t bad enough that she could barely stay awake in her tax class this morning. Or that she almost lost the stupid skip earlier, even after she was able to entice the philandering, faithless asshole into a date. Or that her period started that morning, making the wine stain on her dress just the icing on today’s ruined-clothing cake.  She’s got an exam on databases in two days, her boss has been blowing her phone up with new cases… now she has a kid claiming to be hers, showing up on her doorstep? Some birthday.

 _And damn it_ , she thinks furiously, sniffing and rubbing away her tears with an angry swipe _, I know he’s my kid, too_.  There’s too much of Neal in those soft brown eyes for her to deny it.

“You know, we should probably get going,” comes the boy’s voice, calling from the kitchen. David exchanges a quick, wry look with Emma, and she barks out a helpless little laugh.

They go back out to find little Henry at the sink, rinsing out his glass. He stands on tiptoes to put it neatly on the sideboard, then turns to them, hitching up his backpack with a hop and a grin. “Going where?” Emma asks warily, crossing her arms.  She likes kids, generally, and although she hasn’t spent much time around them, this particular kid seems more clever than most.

The boy takes a breath, glancing briefly at David but turning back to her. “I want you to come home with me,” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, his eyes expectant and hopeful.

Emma’s irritation finally gets the better of her. “All right, kid, that’s it. I’m calling the cops,” she says, rounding the counter towards the phone.

“Emma!” David says, outraged. She ignores her father and grabs the phone from the nightstand, the colors from the television washing over the numbers as she pretends to dial the first 9.

“Then I’ll tell them you kidnapped me,” Henry says. She turns to see him serious-faced, looking almost triumphant.

Emma feels her stomach sink, her eyes locking on the kid’s. “And they’ll believe you, because I’m your birth mother,” she says slowly.

“Yup,” answers the boy, a corner of his mouth curling into what might be a smirk on a less innocent face.

Well… she called his bluff, but now he’s called hers, too. Little does he know that she would never call the police, not even if the kid had busted in with a shotgun and demanded all her money.

“Okay, okay,” David says suddenly, and comes between them, hands held out placatingly.  “No one’s calling the cops,” he assures Henry, then turns to Emma with a look of profound indignation. “And no one’s going to tell the cops they’ve been kidnapped, all right? If you want to go home, Henry, we can take you there.”

Emma glares back at her father; _With what spare time?_ she wants to demand. If he misses a day of work, David’s boss will probably fire him without a second thought, and she has to get her skip’s paperwork back to the agency first thing tomorrow, before she goes to class.

The kid, meanwhile, is still looking up at her expectantly. “All right,” Emma says in defeat, putting her hands up. “I’ll bite. Where’s home?”

“Storeybrooke, Maine,” Henry responds at once, and bites his lip.

Emma is tempted to roll her eyes.  The ridiculous name sounds familiar, as if from a childhood book, and she wonders briefly if it was from the fairy tales her father used to read her at night. But with that earnest, slightly defensive gaze fixed upon her, she can’t be sarcastic. “Storeybrooke?” she says, and gives him a disbelieving look. “Seriously?”

He nods faintly. “Mm-hmm.”

She’s about to demand how on earth a little boy got all the way down to Boston from Maine, when abruptly, David speaks again. “Storeybrooke, Maine?” he says hoarsely.

Emma looks over, and her heart jumps into her throat. All the color has drained from her father’s face, and he’s leaned heavily against the couch, staring at little Henry with wide, unbelieving eyes. “Did you say _Storeybrooke?_ ” he repeats.

Henry hesitates, his head ducking a little, but nods again. “Dad, are you okay?” Emma asks, anxious, and heedlessly dumps the phone back into its cradle, crossing over to put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he says immediately, shaking his head, but she isn’t convinced. She’s struck by the sudden terror that he’s having a heart attack, brought on by a recent flurry of twelve-hour work days and alternating shifts. He’s been looking so tired…

But he waves a hand, the color beginning to return to his face, his cheeks becoming rosy. She can feel his shoulders trembling under her hand: and inexplicably, a wondering grin has begun to spread across his features. “I forgot it was your birthday today,” he says, if that explains everything, and reaches up to squeeze her hand. “Happy twenty-eighth, sweetheart.”

“Um… thanks?” Emma answers, bewildered.

David smiles, then turns back to the boy, taking a deep breath. “Do you…” he asks, pauses to swallow, then finishes, “Do you know a woman named Mary Margaret?  I… can’t remember her last name, but…”

Emma, astonished, watches as Henry’s face splits in a grin that mirrors her father’s in delight. “Yeah. That’s Miss Blanchard’s name. She’s my teacher.” He tilts his head, expression becoming mischievous. “But if you’re Emma’s dad, that means… you’re David, right?”

It’s her father’s turn to look amazed. “Yes,” he answers, eyes bright with excitement. “How did you…?”

“You’re Prince Charming, then,” Henry says confidently. “Snow White’s one true love.”

At that apparent non sequitur, Emma _really_ begins to think her father is having a heart attack.  He nods his head, hand clenching on the front of his coveralls, and she’s distressed to see the pinpoints of tears gleaming in his eyes. _Only fifty on his last birthday_ , she thinks with anguish. _Not yet, not yet…!_

“Kid, please—give it a rest.  Something’s wrong,” she says desperately, and touches her father’s face gently, rubbing his back. “Dad, I’m going to call a doctor.”

But somehow, her father is still smiling through the tears. “No, Emma,” he says suddenly, quietly. “It’s all right.” And something in his tone stills her, makes her hesitate.

With a glance back at Henry, David continues, blinking back his tears. “Do you remember when you were little?” he asks. “When I first came to Minnesota, and… found you in that foster home?”

Emma frowns. “You mean when you crawled through my window and hid in the closet? Yeah, I remember, Dad. What does that…”

“It’s where I came from,” he interrupts her, and gestures to Henry. “Storeybrooke. I’m—your mother and I—we were stuck there, until I… I lost her. And Emma, I know it sounds crazy, but it’s finally time. We have to go back. We have to find her, and break the curse.”

David turns to Henry then, eyes creasing with a smile of such sweet joy and relief that Emma almost doesn’t recognize him for a moment. It’s the father she knew as a child, the man who cheerfully lied to landlords and employers and foster care workers, made goofy mixtapes to accompany their frequent cross-state flights from the law, boldly carried her on his shoulders to the park, helped her with school essays, and taught her how to waltz.

And then his gaze turns to the lone cupcake sitting on the counter, the little candle still boldly sitting upright atop its icing, the smile spreading ever wider. “We’re going home,” David says softly, with wonder.


	2. Storeybrooke, ME - 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing a canon divergence fic based on a sloppily written show is the worst, guys. I've done my damnedest to stay in compliance with what we know about the dark curse, but honestly I just want to write Daddy Charming with his little duckling, so... please forgive any errors. (Or point them out in the comments, I don't mind: I tend to edit as I go, anyway.)

His legs were aching, his hands trembling and his mouth dry. The last thing he remembered was falling to the floor next to the wardrobe, his last sight its empty interior. _She got through_ , he’d thought with soft joy and grief. After that: nothing.

David glanced over at Snow, energetically shoving her way through the snow and the undergrowth, evidently not affected by her alter ego’s presence.  His own head was reeling, a headache pounding behind his eyes: having a cowardly wretch by the name of Nolan suddenly forced inside his brain was bad enough, but he strongly suspected that Regina’s curse had done a number on his skull, as well.  Snow had told him that he’d been in a coma for as long as she could remember - several years, probably. That certainly explained why his body felt weak as a kitten’s, its muscles unused and stiff.

They plunged through the bushes into a small clearing, and abruptly his wife stopped. “This is good,” she said softly, and reached into her pocket to withdraw the delicate pixie flower. David watched as Snow delicately tapped the flower with one finger, dispelling its dust into the gloved palm of her other hand. He gritted his teeth, the pain throbbing down into his neck. What good would he be to his daughter in this state?

Still.  If this plan worked, none of that would matter. They would be with Emma again.

His wife looked up at him nervously, peering from beneath that shockingly short fringe of glossy black hair. “How exactly does this work?” she asked quietly.

David shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered, staring down at the small pile of sparkly dust, his heart skipping a beat at what it would mean if the flower’s magic _did_ work.  After a moment, he added hopefully, “Just… think about Emma and let the magic do the rest.”

Snow smiled back at him, the expression creasing little lines around her glistening eyes.  Then, taking a quick breath, she turned forward, closed her eyes, and, with a flick of her wrist, tossed the dust into the air.

David took a deep breath, trying to summon the mental image of his newborn daughter’s face, her round button nose, the curl of her tiny fingers as she slept. _Emma._ He had tucked her into the cabinet, his hands shaking, terrified to let her go. _Please: show us Emma._

A golden light seemed to surround the dust particles as they swiftly swirled upwards; David winced at the brightness as the air shimmered before them. Somewhere in the woods, a thrush was singing, the sweet notes rising high over the acrid glow of the dust. Then with a whoosh, a tall doorway coalesced in front of them.

Despite its stern appearance, the door braced by tall lines of dark wood and forbidding deep lintels, David felt his knees practically sagging with relief. It had worked - Emma _was_ their true love, and they could open a portal to her! Without hesitating, he stepped forward and twisted the knob to open the door.

The interior of the portal was nothing more than a twisting, roiling mass of glittery gold, and his breath caught in his throat. But now Snow stepped up, dark eyes searching intently, and gently laid her fingers on the cloudy surface. Nothing seemed to happen, and after a moment she stepped back, blinking in confusion.

Then suddenly the clouds cleared, revealing a room with a window… and a small figure, sitting cross-legged on a bed. David couldn’t breathe, joy clutching his heart with fierce talons.

It was Emma. Their daughter. A skinny child clad in an ill-fitting sweater and denim, sitting alone on a thin mattress somewhere. But it had to be her, straw-colored hair glimmering soft and pale in the light from the window. She was wearing headphones and listening to a Walkman - _a Walkman_ , he marveled: that was Nolan’s knowledge again, not his own - while quietly reading a book. She had Snow’s small round face, and what he thought might be his own fair, ruddy complexion.

She was the most gorgeous sight he had ever seen in his life.

At last David managed to take a breath. “Oh. She’s _beautiful_ ,” he whispered hoarsely. He could feel tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and blinked to clear their mist.

Snow said nothing, just continued to stare forward as their daughter turned a page in her book, small face turned down and away from them. David suddenly wondered what she was reading: was it a fairytale? an adventure? or one of the books his alter ego’s wife had read as a child, about the girl detective who solved mysteries?  

And with that absurd thought, the need to know everything about Emma burst through him. “We can’t miss another second,” he said, urgently turning to Snow and stepping forward, tugging at his wife’s arm. “We can’t miss another second!”

“Wait,” she said sharply, and put a hand out to stop him.

David froze, wondering if she’d seen something. “What? What’s wrong?” he demanded.

She stared into the doorway, then looked up, pain flitting across her face before her small features settled into determination. She took a breath for courage. “We can’t go through there,” she explained, softly.

He stared at his wife, stunned. “Snow, we _have_ to,” he insisted, shaking his head.

But before he could continue, Snow spoke again, her face set and pale. “If we go through there, Emma will never become the Savior.”

 _Who cares?_ was the first response that roared up from his heart. David managed to swallow it, and glanced back at his daughter, lonely and silent. “Then she’ll have a new destiny, with us,” he pleaded, his heart wrenching. “Don’t listen to Rumple!”

“It’s not just us,” Snow whispered, and turned to him. David felt his stomach sinking: he knew that look. “And it’s not just Rumple. Regina tested me earlier today. She said Snow White is a hero... who wouldn’t let _anyone_ suffer just to get what she wants.” Hesitating a moment longer, Snow added in an astonished tone, “She’s right. I was prepared to lose everything to save Archie in that mine shaft house. How is this any different?”

A craven little part of David wanted to curl up and meekly agree with Snow - perhaps it was just David Nolan, the failed veterinarian and unhappy, cowed husband, who wanted to give in. But anger, indignation, and the righteous need to _protect his little girl_ clawed at his chest. He’d failed Emma when she was a baby; he couldn’t fail her now.

“Because our daughter’s right there!” he cried, pointing through the door. “And Regina’s just trying to play with your head, Snow. You’re talking about _Emma_ suffering! You want to let our daughter grow up alone? I mean...”

The tears rose up and nearly choked him again, and he cleared his throat. “Snow, we can’t ask her to sacrifice her own happiness to ensure everyone else’s,” he begged. “It would be one thing if it was just our happiness, but she’s a _child_.”

“But we have to,” Snow insisted again. Her eyes were beginning to glisten with tears, as well. “I have lived in this town with everyone we have ever known, and they’re separated from the ones they love, too. We can’t sentence them to this life forever just because we aren’t willing just to wait a _little_ bit longer.”

David felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat, and shook his head in disbelief. Who _was_ this woman in front of him? Had Snow always been so enslaved to the protection of her people that she wouldn’t fight with every inch of her life to ensure her own child’s happiness?  Or was Mary Margaret Blanchard, the simple schoolteacher, no more than a coward who couldn’t bear to stand up to Regina?

“A ‘little bit longer’,” he said evenly. “Look at her, Snow. She’s what, eight? Nine?  So it’ll be twenty years. _Twenty years_ before we see her again. Do you want Emma to spend all the most important years of her life never knowing how much her parents love her, to never meet us until she’s a grown woman? How do you think she feels, having been sent alone into a strange world alone, with nothing more than a blanket and the hope that she would make it through?”

Snow was silent, tears streaming down her face.  “Anyway,” he said with more confidence. “The prophecy never said she had to grow up alone and miserable, right? Just that she wouldn’t return to Storeybrooke or break the curse for twenty-eight years.”

“David, no,” Snow said, and now it was her turn to plead. “We have to believe that she’s strong enough to grow up without us.”

David clenched his teeth. “Why? Why does _she_ have to suffer?” he demanded. “Regina might not have even known about the Savior prophecy, Snow!  The point of this curse was to make _you_ suffer, not our daughter!”

His wife flinched, her face crumpling with grief: and the motion lodged itself under David’s skin like a barb. He turned away from Snow, looking back into his daughter’s room. Emma had placed her head in one hand, staring down at the book intently.

“We have to go to her,” he said hoarsely. “We can’t leave her alone any longer.”

He grabbed his wife’s hand and stepped forward, toward the portal. “Stop! David, _no_ \- ” Snow cried.

Just as he took his first step through the doorway, he felt her grasp slip from his, and looked back to see Snow frozen in place, sobbing. She put her hands to her face, the gold cloud shimmering between them, and the air seemed to be whirling up around him.

“Wait,” he gasped. “Wait, Snow, you have to come through with me - ”

And then there was a great explosion of noise, his head ringing as wind gusted around him and the portal began to close. He was thrown forward and lifted up in a powerful surge of energy; he landed on hands and knees, scraping his palms on rough carpet.

Whirling, he looked up, stomach convulsing in horror as the portal behind him shrank rapidly, distorting his wife’s tear-streaked face into a grotesque oblong. She was shouting something, perhaps his name, a hand reaching toward him - but with a whoosh and a crack, the portal snapped shut, leaving only the dark interior of a small closet.

* * *

The door swung shut behind her husband with a bang, then disintegrated once more into shimmering dust. And with a faint whistle, the wind blew the small cloud away until it vanished within the woods. “No!” Snow cried, sobbing, and helplessly fell to her knees in the empty clearing. “David!”

Frantically, she remembered the pixie flower still clutched in her hand: maybe there was still some dust left to use!  But as she lifted the little blossom, she watched in horror as its petals faded and died, the flower turning into a black husk.

And then there was a laugh behind her: a deep-throated, melodious cackle. Snow knew that laugh. Regina.

“Well, look who was a clever little goose and managed to open a portal," gloated the mayor - no, the Evil Queen. "But oops - sorry! No mulligans on magic.” 

Snow slowly rose to her feet and turned. Regina’s arms were crossed, and she wore a cold smile. “You know,” she continued, casually sashaying forward, her boots crunching as she tiptoed lightly through the snow-coated undergrowth, “I thought the delicious irony of putting your dear Charming into a coma was a good way to punish you. But maybe if he’s missing from the town altogether, that’s even better. I don't know how you got that portal open, but it’ll surely make you miserable if your true love is gone.” She wrinkled her nose, her eyes sparkling with malicious glee.

Snow clutched her fists tightly. “He’ll find me,” she heard herself say loudly, and sniffed back her tears. “He’ll come back and stop you.”

She was about to mention Emma, to say that their daughter would return even if David didn’t. But then she realized he’d been right: Regina might not even know they had a child, let alone about the prophecy that Emma would be the Savior.  She clenched her teeth, her chest aching with rage and grief, mingled in equal parts with heartwrenching relief. Mary Margaret Blanchard might spend the next twenty years alone… but at least David would be with their daughter. And he would find her: he would _always_ find her.

Regina just rolled her eyes. “Well, good luck to him trying to get back into Storeybrooke,” she sneered, and Snow's heart dropped. “The only person who can cross the town line is me.  He’ll never be able to find the town, not even if he does manage to bumble his way back here. Now…”

Reaching into her pocket, Regina pulled out a small handgun, casually holding it at her side so the barrel was pointed at the ground. Nevertheless, the threat was there, and Snow shrank back uneasily, knowing she had no way to protect herself. “It’s time for you to go back to being Miss Blanchard,” Regina informed her coldly. “So are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?”


	3. Boston, MA - 2011

Emma wakes up bleary-eyed, licking dry lips and wondering why it’s so bright, why she’s so cold. Then she realizes she’s on the couch, with little more than a couple of blankets for warmth - she’d tucked Henry into her own bed last night and dragged herself back into the living room for a few hours of sleep.  The miniscule balcony on this side of the building actually gets sunshine during fall mornings, and it’s blazing right in her face through the open blinds of the sliding glass door.

There’s soft laughter and cheerful whispers elsewhere in the apartment. She levers herself up, yawning, and wraps her favorite old thrift-store afghan around herself before padding into the kitchen. She looks at the microwave clock and starts: it’s nearly ten o’clock. Which means she’s already slept through a meeting with her faculty advisor.  _ Dr. Johnson is going to kill me _ , she thinks miserably.

David is making breakfast at the stove, while Henry sits on one of the high barstools, swinging his legs. “Oops,” the boy says when he sees her, and takes a sip of orange juice. “Did we wake you up?”

“No, I kinda wish you had,” Emma answers, and reluctantly perches next to him at the kitchen island. He’s got some kind of book open in front of him, a large leatherbound tome with illustrations.

David turns around to give her a smile; he’s frying pancakes in his favorite old skillet, their surfaces golden-brown and tinged with the telltale specks of nutmeg he likes to add. She can smell bacon in the oven, and the coffee machine burbles as it brews.

_ It’s like we’re already a little family _ , she thinks with astonishment, then shakes her head to dispel that absolutely looney tunes thought. “So, kid. I have to make a couple of phone calls and drop off some paperwork, but then I’ll drive you back up to Maine, all right?” she says, succumbing to another yawn and rubbing her eyes.

Henry glances between her and her father, lips pursed. “Well… okay, but Grandpa already said he’ll drive all of us,” he says, looking confused.

Emma sighs in exasperation, trying to ignore what that casual ‘Grandpa’ does to her stomach. “Dad…”

David says nothing for a moment, busy transferring the hot pancakes onto a plate. He snags the maple syrup from within the fridge, then turns back and sets both pancakes and syrup in front of Henry. He’s wearing one of his favorite old flannel shirts beneath the battered apron which reads  _ Kiss the Cook _ , a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. “I’ve already called in to work and told them I was sick,” he says to Emma, his calm demeanor belied by his blue eyes, which are sparkling with mischievous energy. “It’s not like it matters, anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Emma demands, eyeing the kid and trying to sound calm. Luckily, Henry has shoved his book aside and is already digging into the pancakes, the tip of his tongue pointing from the corner of his mouth as he levers one onto his plate. “Dad, I know this job sucks, but it took you forever and a day to find it. What if you get fired?”

He shrugs dismissively, picks up a pair of oven mitts, and bends down to take a tray of crispy bacon strips from the oven, then snags a pair of tongs to carefully lift them onto another plate. “Watch out, they’re really hot,” he warns, as Henry gleefully reaches for a piece.

Fuming impatiently, Emma throws off her afghan and comes around the island to meet her father at the coffee maker. “What is going on with you?” she hisses. “I know he’s technically my kid, but we’ve got a good thing going here, Dad. It’s one thing for me to skip a class or two, it’s totally different for you to blow all your hard work on giving him a ride back to where he ran off from.”

“I know,” her father replies, nodding. “We do have a good thing going, a really good thing. But Emma, it’s time to move on to something even better.”

He plucks a coffee mug from the shelf, fills it with coffee, and hands it to her. Emma is stunned at his nonchalance. “In Maine. A place neither of us have ever been,” she remarks, with disbelief.

David gives her a strange look, and leans back against the counter, glancing at Henry. The boy is watching them, but only half-interested, most of his attention on the food. “Well, I’ve been there before,” he says dryly. “I only remember about a day of it, but… that’s where your mother still is. Has been, for twenty-eight years.”

Emma’s mouth goes dry, her heart freezing.  _ My mother _ . “My mother is gone. You  _ always  _ said she was gone,” she blurts, automatically. “When you came to this country, you had to leave her behind.”

It’s not until he shakes his head, looking pained, that her sleepy brain catches up. “Wait a second, are you…” she demands. “What the kid said last night about… about -” she can hardly make herself say it “- Prince Charming and Snow White...  you actually think…?”

Her father shifts uncomfortably this time, opening his mouth and then closing it. There’s never been any doubt in Emma’s mind that her father is a goddamned prince: the tall, gentle, selfless, golden-haired hero who guards her life and her heart with everything he has. He’s just not the horse-riding, armor-wearing, sword-swinging sort of prince.

“It’s true. He came here in a curse,” Henry says solemnly, and both of them turn to meet the boy’s serene gaze. He fiddles with his fork, looking down at the syrup-soaked pancakes, then adds, “I know it’s hard to believe, Emma, but you’ll see. Don’t worry.”

Resisting the urge to heave a long-suffering sigh, Emma looks back up at her father. He smiles half-heartedly. “Use your superpower, kiddo,” he says in a quiet voice. “Tell me whether I’m lying, when I say that I’m Prince David, husband of Snow White, rightful queen of the Enchanted Forest - and that the only way we’re ever going to bring our family back is by going to Storeybrooke, Maine.”

His eyes are unwavering on hers, cheeks burning with those familiar soft red patches and his fair brows raised. His tone is serious, with no challenge or self-defense, just serene honesty. Emma falters. 

“Just because you believe something, doesn’t mean it’s true,” she answers at last, her heart wrenching.

David smiles then, and gives her a simple nod of acknowledgement. But Henry pipes up. “That’s exactly what makes it true,” he insists. 

He pulls his book back over: Emma sees that the leather cover is graced with elaborate gilded letters that spell the words  _ Once Upon a Time _ . He opens it up to a bookmarked page, then hesitates, looking uncertainly at David. “Do you think she’s ready?”

David shrugs again, but this time it’s with a smile. Henry takes a deep breath and turns the book around, so that an illustration is facing Emma. 

She leans forward to see that it’s a rather abstract drawing of a man and a woman holding one another in their arms and looking fearful. Both are elegantly clad, the woman in a long white dress and formal gloves, the man in an elaborately embroidered doublet and cape. 

Emma glances back up at her father. “Snow White and Prince Charming, huh?” she says dryly. Not to say that the man in the illustration doesn’t bear somewhat of a resemblance to a younger version of her father - broad shoulders, sandy hair, strong chin - but that hardly proves anything.

“Yeah. All of the stories in this book actually happened,” Henry says confidently. He flips the page to show another drawing. “Here. See? You’re in it, too.”

Emma sighs, but obligingly leans forward onto the counter to get a closer look. This time, the illustration is of an infant, swaddled in a cozy blanket, being lowered into a small closet by the sandy-haired man from the other picture, who is now bleeding and holding a sword. The story on the left appears to be about an impending curse, a tragic tale of Snow White giving birth to a child but having it pulled from her arms; Prince Charming -  _ David: it calls him Prince David _ , she thinks with disbelief - fighting off black-clad guards to reach a magical cabinet made from a tree and place the little girl inside; the prince dying in his wife’s arms as the curse finally descends.

Well, it’s certainly not the Disney version, but it’s a compelling story. She looks up and meets Henry’s eyes. “And this is supposed to be me?” She taps the page with the baby.

“Uh-huh,” he says solemnly.

Emma shakes her head and sighs again. But then David speaks, quietly. “Look at the picture again, Emma. The blanket.”

Frowning, she obeys - and then she sees it. The baby’s knitted blanket is yellow with a purple ribbon around the edge… and a tag that reads  _ Emma _ .

She’s unable to move, her breath frozen in her throat. That’s  _ her _ blanket. The one she carried from foster home to foster home, then from shelter to apartment to shelter again, and finally to this dingy flat, always lovingly washed inside a pillowcase to keep it from fraying any further. Her precious baby blanket... that’s sitting in the living room not fifteen feet away, draped across the back of the couch.

She’s almost frightened to look up at David. He gives her a tiny smile that’s almost apologetic. A thousand thoughts are whirling through her head, all trying to explain that this book has to be a hoax: that her father is playing a trick on her and that the kid is in on it. But her gut is telling her otherwise.

* * *

They leave Boston around noon, sailing out of town and northwards on the expressway.  It’s going to be a three or four hour drive, minimum, and with the three of them crammed onto the bench seat of the rattly old pickup truck David hardly ever drives anymore, Emma knows it’s going to be damned uncomfortable, to boot.

Especially since Henry keeps asking questions: impossible questions, ridiculous questions, questions that her father has no right to be answering with such a perfectly serious tone. He tells stories about trolls and castles and mermaids, tales of true love and miracles. Emma grips the steering wheel until her fingers ache, wanting more than anything to believe it’s all real. Henry says something about the mythical Prince Charming having grown up on a farm, about raising sheep and living as a simple peasant with his mother, and Emma nearly chokes. It’s true that her father always loved animals, and is one of the hardest-working men she’s ever met, but… was that really why he chose their new last name?

As they pass through Portsmouth and into Maine, Henry pulls out his book again, propping his feet on the center transmission hump and resting the book on his lap. “Where did you get that book, anyway?” David asks curiously. “Odd enough that we happen to be fairy tale characters in your land, but that there’s a published book about us that gets our stories right for once.”

He gives Emma one of his irresistibly sunny smiles, and she can’t help but smile back, the corner of her own mouth curling. It’s been a long time since she’s seen her father like this, at least when they’re out in public with everything to fear.

“Oh, Miss Blanchard gave it to me. She found it in her closet one day,” Henry answers. He looks up at David with earnest eyes. “She said that fairy tales are a reminder that our lives will get better if we just hold on to hope.”

David chuckles. “Yeah, that sounds like Snow,” he murmurs with a wistful expression.

Then his brow wrinkles into a slight frown. “You’ve said that she’s your teacher, right?” he asks, and Henry nods. “And that Granny runs a diner with a bed and breakfast attached, Red is one of the waitresses, and the dwarves have odd jobs around town.”

“Yup,” Henry says cheerfully. “Sneezy owns the drugstore, though. I always thought that was kind of funny.”

David smiles obligingly, but there’s a question lurking behind his eyes that Emma doesn’t like. “So... who do  _ you  _ live with?” he asks carefully. “I mean, from my world.”

Emma clenches her teeth, staring at the bumper of the car in front of them and trying not to groan.  _ This is nonsense! _ a voice in her head is shouting. She gave this little boy up when she was barely eighteen years old, and someone from Maine took him in. End of story. He’s obviously well-fed, with prep school clothing and a brand-name backpack, and aside from the fairy-tale nonsense seems to be terribly well-adjusted.  _ Better than I was at that age, anyway _ , she thinks unhappily. Why does it matter who adopted him?

There’s a brief silence, then Henry heaves a sigh. “You’re not going to like it,” he warns.

“Why? Don’t tell me it’s Grumpy,” her father says, chuckling. “Although come to think of it, he’d be okay. Just a little cranky sometimes.”

Emma glances down at the boy, squashed into the middle seat. He suddenly looks miserable, his shoulders sagging.  The bright sunshine is gleaming from the letters on the book, and he fingers them absently. “Well…” he hedges, then takes a deep breath. “I live with my mom. She adopted me when I was a baby. She’s the mayor of Storeybrooke, and… her name is Regina. Regina Mills.”

He stops, sniffling. “The Evil Queen,” David breathes. Emma, busy navigating into the left lane to pass a tractor-trailer, can’t immediately look over to see her father’s expression. When she does, she’s surprised to see that he’s wide-eyed with real distress and horror.

The boy makes a little grunt of agreement, his blank face still turned down to the book. “Oh, Henry,” says her father understandingly, and gathers him in for a hug. “No wonder you came to find your real mother.”

Emma suddenly can’t take any more of the nonsense. “Kid, how on earth did you find me, anyway?” she says impatiently. Bad enough that he’d fled his adoptive mother’s home to find the woman who’d abandoned him as an infant, but she hasn’t gone by the name ‘Swan’ since… well, since Henry was born.

“I used my mom’s credit card, and the internet. You filed your local taxes here,” the boy explains. He shoots her a look of pained disappointment. “And I have a name, you know. It’s Henry.”

Emma snorts. But she’s absolutely charmed by his cleverness - combing through tax records is one of her tricks as a bail bondsperson! - and she can’t help but feel a pang of regret. “Okay, Henry. Sorry,” she admits.

She wants to say more,  _ so _ much more. That she understands having been given up as a baby. That she knows what it’s like to hate an adoptive parent. And… that finding your family, your real family, can mean more than anything in the world.  

But she says nothing, afraid of accidentally also telling him that the idea of being adopted by the Evil Queen is just plain silly. And worse, that Emma Shepherd is  _ nowhere _ near ready to take over being his mother, especially not from a woman who’s the mayor of a whole town.

Emma glances over at her own father. He’s still got a grandfatherly sort of arm draped around the boy’s shoulders, and is gazing serenely out the window.  _ He really believes it _ , she marvels.  _ Every single thing this kooky kid has said… my hard-working, down-to-earth father truly believes _ .

She sighs again, turns her eyes back to the road, and flicks on the windshield wipers to clear the bit of rain that’s started sprinkling down. One step at a time: first they’ll get the kid back to his mother. Then they’ll deal with whether or not her own father and mother stepped out of a storybook.

* * *

The GPS on her phone eventually leads her off the highway and onto a two-lane state route leading up the coast. They drive along the Atlantic shore for a good long time, passing through small towns and long stretches of pine forests, watching the surf crash onto rocky beaches on their right as fog creeps onto the road from their left.  Henry reaches forward and turns on the radio, frowning as he tries to reach his desired station, but he has no success. He turns it back down to a soft whisper of static, nearly as quiet as the waves outside their windows.

The road turns suddenly, passing through a wide field of freely waving grasses, and back into the pine forests. Henry suddens perks up, bouncing in his seat. “This is it!” he exclaims.

A sign sits on the left-hand side of the road ahead, an old-fashioned wooden marquee set into a stone base.  _ Welcome to Storeybrooke! _ it reads, the scripted letters arched slightly.

“All this time, it’s been here,” David murmurs, and she glances over to see his face pale and set as he stares at the sign, almost as if he’s frightened. “It just wasn’t on any maps until now.”

Emma frowns, not sure she heard him correctly. “What?” she asks. 

David looks over at her, and his lips part slightly, his blue eyes wide with worry. But he just shakes his head.

They drive past the sign, whooshing forward into the dark rows of evergreen trees. A stiff breeze blows briskly through the truck; Emma’s hair whirls, blowing a few strands across her face, and she automatically squints against the wind, her hand reaching down to crank the window shut. Then her fingers close around the handle, and she realizes it’s been closed for a while now. 

_ Odd _ , she thinks, frowning and brushing the hair back behind her ear. Maybe the heaters are malfunctioning: it wouldn’t be a surprise, this ancient old pickup has been on its last legs for a while.

The radio has finally picked up its signal, and a voice is cheerfully announcing the weather. Emma has just reached forward to turn it down a little more when she notices her father. All her nerves go jagged and cold again.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” she asks. He’s clinging to the handrest and the seat with his face turned down to the floor, trembling and breathing hard.

Faintly, she hears Henry quietly say, “Uh-oh,” before her father looks up. His eyes are blank, glancing wildly around, and she can see beads of sweat forming on his pale forehead.

Emma puts on the brakes, slowing the truck and pulling over on the side of the road. “Dad,” she says again, insistently, and reaches over Henry to grasp her father’s shoulder, firm and tense beneath his thick military-style coat. “Dad, are you okay?”

David stares at her for a moment, his throat working soundlessly. His brows furrow into a frown. At last he speaks, his voice hoarse and half-panicked. “Who… who are you?” he demands.


	4. Duluth, MN - 1993

David remained frozen on the floor for a moment, paralyzed by terror and shock and disbelief, his chest clutching with agony. Snow was gone: he’d left her behind. He’d lost her again. “What have I done?” he whispered weakly.

Then there was a tiny noise behind him - a squeak, almost. David turned back to the room, slowly this time, his throat hitching.

Emma. His little girl. She was right there in front of him, no more than four feet away.

She was perched at the edge of the bed, one leg halfway extended to the floor, eyes wide as saucers. The puffy foam headphones had fallen from her ears and now hung crookedly around her neck, half-covered by her lank blonde hair. Her posture was that of a frightened kitten, tensed and ready to flee.

He couldn’t help himself: despite the awful sorrow and chagrin crawling through his chest, he felt his face spreading with a smile, the pain in his head seeming to disappear. She was _so_ beautiful.

“Emma,” he said softly. Her lips trembled, and the gods only knew what she must be thinking, but he repeated her name. “Emma.”

Something in her eyes stilled. Then abruptly she leapt for the other bed, scrabbling around beneath it and finally whirling towards him, breathing hard, clutching a heavy black boot with both hands and holding it overhead like a weapon.

David managed to rise to his knees, still facing her.  He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or cry at the fierce expression on her face: she was the very picture of Snow White, all her mother’s anger aroused in miniature form.

“Who are you?” Emma hissed. “How’d you get in my closet?”

David shook his head, still grinning like an idiot, his throat too choked to answer. How could he possibly explain to her that he’d come through a magic portal from the middle of a forest? He didn’t even know where the town called ‘Storeybrooke’ was: or for that matter, where _this_ was. “Emma, I…” he said helplessly.

She tensed again, clutching the boot tighter. “Who _are_ you?” she demanded again. “And how the heck do you know my name?”

David hesitated. His chest aching, he glanced back toward the empty, dark closet, a few meager clothes hanging from skeletal racks, boxes piled higgledy-piggledy in the corners. He looked back just in time for Emma to swing the boot at him, her eyes creased in furious fright as she beaned him in the side of the head.  He yelped and clutched at his ear.

“I asked you a question!” she yelled tearfully.

David held up a hand of defeat, his head ringing. “Okay, okay. Ow,” he exclaimed, unable to keep from laughing, and the words came out in a rush, percolating faster than he could think. “I’m sorry. I’m… my name is David. I’m… I’m...”

He stopped and swallowed, licking his lips. The colors in Emma’s face had gone patchy, just as his did when he was angry, all the color concentrated right below her cheekbones. Ruth had always pinched his cheeks right there when he was a boy, laughing and saying how sweet it made him look.

And somehow, as Emma glared at him, David felt that she already knew. “I’m your father,” he said softly, and slowly got to his feet, his chest heaving and his knees aching. “I came to find you.”

She said nothing, breathing lightly. They stared at one another, and once more her lips trembled. Faintly, he wondered whether he could risk reaching out to her, or if she would try to hit him with the boot again.

But before he could do so, there was a sharp voice from outside the room, making both of them jump. “Hey!  What the hell was that noise?”

David froze: the logical, determined part of him wanted to leap forward and stand protectively in front of his daughter. But she reacted more quickly, dropping the boot and shoving him backwards toward the closet .

“Get in!” she hissed.

“But—”

“Now! I’m gonna get in trouble if you don’t hide!” she insisted, almost a little frantic, and closed the door on him. Through the crack between the door and the lintel, she hissed, “And be quiet!”

Settling onto his knees within the narrow, pitch-dark closet, David leaned forward and put his ear against the door. There was a faint rustling of covers, then pages, as if Emma had hopped back onto her bed. He glanced around behind him; nothing but the grey outlines of clothing, illuminated by the narrow strip of light coming from under the door. His heart wrenched again, both at the meagreness of her possessions and at the sheer emptiness of the closet, with no evidence that the portal existed.  He felt like he could weep. Was Snow still standing in the woods, frantically trying to get the portal open? Or was she figuring out another way to follow him?

There was a bang from outside, as the bedroom door opened, angry feet stamping across the carpet. “Hey!” Emma cried.

Then she let out a cry of pain. “Didn’t you hear me, you little brat?” a woman’s voice snapped, then made a noise of disgust, accompanied by the sound of a book being thrown across the room, pages whipping. “Why were you yelling? What was that banging noise?”

David clenched his fists, feeling his cheeks blaze with rage, his palms still burning from having scraped heavily against the shoddy carpet. “I was talking to myself. And I… I thought that noise was just the heater,” Emma said, her voice tight. “Didn’t it break again? It’s cold in here.”

“Don’t you backtalk me, little Miss Diva,” the strange woman barked. David’s throat began to close, his breath coming quick and shallow.

“I’m not,” Emma insisted.

It took everything David had to keep from bursting out of the closet. He didn’t know whether the woman was Emma’s new parent or just a caretaker of some kind, but somewhere inside his head, Nolan was screaming that it wouldn’t help matters to have anyone see him hiding in a young girl’s closet like a pervert.

He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes watering with fury: once the woman left the room, he would come out. Then they could leave together...

The sound of a slap rang out, followed by the faintest of whimpers. “Well, you can enjoy _not_ backtalking me alone in your room, then,” the woman said coldly. “And if I hear you making any more noise, you’ll get to miss another weekend trip, like you did today. Capiche?”

It was silent for a moment; then there was another yelp of pain. “Answer me, you little shit!” the woman demanded.

“Let go of me, you’re hurting me,” Emma cried.

David was on his feet and slamming open the closet door before he could think twice. A thin woman with stringy hair and smudged eye makeup, probably ten years his senior, looked around and gaped. She was clutching a tear-streaked Emma by her shoulders, sharp nails digging into the girl’s upper arms.

“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my daughter,” David said evenly, and stepped forward so that he was towering over the woman.

She mouthed helplessly, but her hands fell from Emma’s arms, and she lurched away from him so quickly that she fell backwards onto the second bed, knocking a ratty teddy bear to the floor.

Emma glanced up at him with tear-shimmering eyes, and scrambled off her own bed to stand in front of him, glowering. “I’m leaving,” she declared shrilly, “and if you try to stop me, _he’s_ going to stuff a sock in your mouth and tie you up in the closet. Right?”

She looked up again, clenching her jaw, her eyes burning with desire and fury. “Right,” David agreed matter-of-factly, warmth creeping into his chest, and set his hands on her little shoulders. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”

Emma didn’t even hesitate: just reached up and put her small hand in his. She snatched a blanket from the bed, then stamped from the room, pulling David behind her as the woman continued to stare with her mouth open.

They pattered down a short staircase, then into a living room. It was a large, ugly box of a house, little more than a graceless rectangle of rooms around a grimy hallway with shiny patterned floors ( _It’s called linoleum_ , Nolan informed him smugly). Emma led him through a cramped kitchen area and yanked a small coat down from a rack on the wall, pulling it on as they went. David winced at the state of the counters, caked with filth and piled with unwashed dishes.

They burst through a screen door and into an overgrown backyard, hurrying away from the house and towards the treeline. “She’s probably on the phone already,” Emma said miserably, and as she glanced back he could see tears once more welling in her eyes. “Last time I ran away, they sent the cops after me.”

He managed to follow her until they were deep enough in the woods that they could no longer see the trashy yellow house, vines and undergrowth plucking at their jeans. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up for a minute,” he wheezed breathlessly, feeling ashamed that he was so winded from their flight, and pulled back on Emma’s hand to stop her. “Emma. Are you all right? Did she hurt you?”

She slid her hand from his, awkwardly picking at her nails, and looked down at the ground. “No. I guess,” she mumbled. The slap had left no mark on her perfect, peach-pink cheek, but tears glimmered on her lashes still.  She glanced up briefly into his eyes, then back down, suddenly looking nervous.

At last she blurted, “So you’re really… my dad?”

David nearly laughed, but grief and burning, bright love choked his throat. He dropped down onto one knee, heedless of the wet mud seeping into his jeans, so he could look up at her. Slipping off his gloves, he took both of her cold little hands in his. “Yeah, I am,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Emma. Your mom and I… we came here from another land, and we had to send you along before us. We didn’t want to be separated, though, it was an awful choice.”

He swallowed, hoping the bare truth was enough. Emma blinked, biting her lip. “So you were like, immigrants or something?” she asked uncertainly.

David had already opened his mouth to say no when he realized that technically, she was right. The words ‘Social Security Number’ were rattling around in his brain, but for the moment he couldn’t recall their significance. So he just he nodded, giving her a sad little smile.

“Where’s my mom, then?” Emma demanded with a frown. “Is she…?”

The thought of Snow made his heart skip a beat, his jaw freezing with terror and guilt and sorrow. _I’m sorry, Snow - I’m so sorry_ , he thought, and briefly closed his eyes.

“Gone,” he said simply, and swallowed. After a moment, he tried to smile and added, “But I’ll find her again. I’ll always find her.”

Emma nodded hesitantly, then broke into a watery smile, sniffling and wiping her eyes with a corner of the small yellow blanket she’d tucked under her arm. And with a shock, David saw the hand-embroidered tag on the side, the purple ribbon, the loopy thread that spelled her name. It was the blanket Granny had knitted for her - the same one David had wrapped her in before tucking her into the enchanted wardrobe. It felt like only hours ago. _Hell, for me it_ _was_ _only hours ago_ , he thought, astonished.

Gently, he let go of her hand and fingered the worn yarn, marveling at how faded and well-loved the poor thing was. “You kept your baby blanket all these years,” he said softly.

His daughter looked down at the blanket. Slowly, she pulled a winter hat from her jacket’s pocket and put it on her head: but her mouth puckered, and she couldn’t seem to look at him. At last she said in a very small voice, “It was all I had.”

David felt tears prick at his own eyes, and he slid his arms around her. After a moment, Emma hugged him back tightly, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, her little sobs hitched and heartbroken in his ear. He closed his eyes, terrified to be filled with such painful joy.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I love you. You’ll never be alone again, Emma. I promise.”

* * *

It was only hours later, after he’d carried her piggyback into a mission shelter, both of them exhausted and freezing and thirsty, that he remembered what a Social Security Number was. “Do you have any kind of identification?” the receptionist asked kindly.

Emma was practically swaying at his side, yawning and blinking owlishly beneath her beanie. David opened his mouth, then closed it, his mind whirling with dim despair. The ill-fitting coat and clothes Snow had scrounged up after liberating him from the hospital had been from a donations bin, the pockets empty, and Nolan had apparently been a John Doe patient.  He had no wallet, no keys, no driver’s license, not even a single dollar bill to his name. Prodding at his alter ego’s false memories, he found that he couldn’t remember his Social Security Number or birthplace - if Regina had even given Nolan any of that in the first place.

At last he shook his head, mutely, a pang of hopelessness washing through him. “That’s all right,” the young man said, smiling at Emma. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

She yawned again, cavernously, covering her mouth with a hand that was swimming in one of David’s gloves. “Emma,” she said, green eyes hooded and heavy with sleep. “Emma Swan.”

The receptionist nodded and wrote it down. Then he turned to David, brows raised expectantly.

Clearing his throat, David spoke. “I’m her dad. David… Swan.”


	5. Storeybrooke, ME - 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are going to KILL me.

Henry sullenly gives directions as Emma guides the truck into the old-fashioned little town of Storeybrooke. He already tried to protest at being taken straight to his mother’s house, insisting that Emma’s poor confused father is just affected by the same curse as the rest of the town, and should be taken straight to the home of his own schoolteacher, Miss Blanchard. 

Emma just shakes her head, praying desperately that her father hasn’t had a stroke. “I can only handle one disaster at a time, kid,” she tells Henry. “I’m going to drop you off and take my dad to the hospital.”

David, meanwhile, is staring out the window with blank eyes, hands limp in his lap. He didn’t know her name or Henry’s and has a vague impression that he’s a man named David Nolan. But he has no memory of their ride up from Boston… or his entire  _ life. _  Emma keeps biting her lip, practically drawing blood in the effort not to cry.

They whiz through the middle of town, past a general store and an old broken clock tower, attracting stares from passersby. At last they pull up to 108 Mifflin Street, the evergreen hedges lining the lawn not quite obscuring the huge white mansion beyond. 

Emma suddenly feels a stab of irritation, not entirely untempered by unjust jealousy.  _ The kid ran away from  _ _ this _ _? _ she thinks, craning her neck to look up at the enormous Georgian-style house.

Henry makes a little whining noise, but Emma ignores it, shutting off the truck and hopping out of her side. “Come on, kid,” she says, beckoning him to slide out her side. “Dad, we’ll be right back, okay?”

David nods faintly, his brows creased with forlorn distress, but still he says nothing. Emma’s heart trembles. Why didn’t she just take him to the hospital first?

She helps Henry jump down from the truck cab, then slams the door. “Please don’t take me back there,” he begs, dragging his feet in long, sullen scrapes as he follows her through the hedge row and down the front sidewalk.  The front lawn is lush, gleaming wet with rain, and a tree loaded with shiny red apples sits directly in the middle.

“I have to, kid. Your mother must be worried sick about you,” Emma answers, more sharply than she’d meant to.

“No, she isn’t,” Henry rejoins sullenly. “She’s  _ evil _ .”

Emma stops, turning to face him again. “Evil?” she asks, tired.

“She is,” the boy says, his shoulders drooping. He glances up at her, but then stares down at his shoes, lashes fluttering nervously against his soft cheeks. “She says she loves me, but she only pretends to.”

Emma’s heart wrenches, regret and stricken guilt threatening to choke her. Even if he really thinks his mother is the Evil Queen out of some storybook, she still knows that nothing is worse than the feeling of being unloved. 

“Oh, kid,” she says softly, and bends down to meet his gaze. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

A sudden squeak catches her ear, and she turns to see that the mansion’s front door has opened, issuing a slim female figure, braced by a taller silhouette behind. “Henry!” the woman exclaims, and runs foward, her hair flying and her heels clicking on the sidewalk. “Oh, Henry!”

The woman’s pretty face is alight with joy and love, and she bends down to throw her arms around the boy, letting out a sigh. Emma stands back, her nerves subsiding at the mayor’s obvious worry and relief. 

“Are you okay?” Henry’s mother adds, pulling back and grasping his shoulders in desperation. “Where have you been?” She’s a handsome woman, her dress tailored and her nails beautifully manicured.

She glances up at Emma; Emma gets an impression of dark eyes, a full and lipsticked mouth, and slim dark brows. She wishes briefly that she could remember the woman’s name. The mayor’s companion, a scruffy, handsome young man, has joined them on the sidewalk.  

“What’s happening?” the woman asks, confused, looking back to Henry.

Before Emma can say anything, Henry yanks his arm away from his mother’s hand. “I found my  _ real _ mom,” he yells. Then, snatching up his backpack, he runs into the house, tennis shoes pounding on the steps, and slams the door behind him.  

The young man watches Henry go, slate-blue eyes creased in an expression of bemused interest. He’s wearing a leather jacket and tight corduroy waistcoat, with an old-fashioned star badge that reads  _ Sheriff _ pinned to his breast. Emma marvels dimly that even in a dinky little town like this, they still wear those kind of costumey pieces.

But she doesn’t waste more than a moment’s glance on him. The mayor of Storeybrooke is staring at her in disbelief. Emma tries to smile, but it won’t come.  

“You’re Henry’s birth mother?” the woman asks, her dark eyes flashing with distress.

Emma shrugs, feeling lame, and glances over her shoulder at the truck. “Yeah. Here’s the thing. I… I just wanted to drop him off,” she says, the words all coming out in a rush.. “He came and found me in Boston last night, but I have to go. Something’s wrong with my dad - is there a hospital in town?”

There’s a moment’s silence as the other woman continues staring at her. The sheriff clears his throat awkwardly. “I’ll, ah… just go make sure the lad’s all right,” he says, and reluctantly backs away toward the house.

The mayor watches him walk away, then turns back around. “Yes, there is a hospital,” she admits. “Storeybrooke General. It’s on the other side of town, back toward the main road. Do you… want to come inside for a minute, though? I just… I’m sorry, Henry’s never run away before.” She clasps her hands, her slim brows clenched in apologetic embarrassment, and for a moment Emma feels very sorry for her. 

“I really can’t, but thank you,” Emma answers, relieved. “If you need me to stop by or call to explain later, I can, I just wanted to make sure Henry got home all right.”

She hesitates a moment longer, then adds, “My name’s Emma Shepherd.”

The woman smiles then, genuinely friendly. “Nice to meet you, Emma,” Regina says gratefully, offering a hand. Her grip is cool and soft. “Regina Mills. I’m the Mayor of Storeybrooke. I’m sorry if Henry caused you any trouble. We can talk another time…”

_ Regina! That’s right _ , Emma thinks with relief. Then she notices that the other woman has trailed off, and that her face has transformed into an expression of astonishment. 

Abruptly Regina’s lip curls, her brows clenching low, and her eyes begin to gleam with hatred. “ _ You _ ,” she snarls, and she pulls back her hand, her fists clenching. She tightens her shoulders into a fighting stance, her body braced. 

Emma starts, tensing - until she realizes that Regina is staring behind her. She whirls. 

Her father is standing in the path between the double hedgerows, backlit by the afternoon sun, so as to appear as little more than a silhouette. Tall and broad-shouldered, with his hands loosely fisted at his sides, David strikes an imposing, almost threatening figure.

Emma looks back at Regina, thinking for a moment that the woman might just be intimidated by the appearance of a strange man. But no; the mayor’s face gleams with feral hatred - and recognition.

“Um, Regina… this is my dad,” Emma says carefully, keeping her voice low and even. “Dad, it’s okay. Henry’s safe inside, I’m going to take you over to the hospital now.”

Her father doesn’t say anything, just slowly ambles toward her through the dripping hedges and down the wet pathway. Emma reaches out her hand to him, keeping an uneasy eye on the ferociously scowling Regina.

At last David’s face comes into view; his forehead is wrinkled with a pleasant sort of bemused expression, and the silver on his temples stands out bright against the darker blonde hair.  The mayor’s features slowly unclench, her fury becoming tempered by wary wonder. Her lips are parted as she stares at David, eyes searching his features. 

Then she glances over to Emma. “You’re… his daughter,” she says, disbelieving.

Emma blinks. “Uh. Yup.” 

David speaks quietly. “Is this the woman you were looking for? The boy’s mother?” The mayor’s cheek twitches, her eyes cold. 

“Yeah, this is Henry’s mom,” Emma answers. “Anyway, uh. It was nice to meet you, Regina. We really need to get going now.” She gives a little wave and starts stepping backwards, trying her best to smile, and tugs David after her. 

They retreat silently from the mayor’s house and clamber back into the truck. Regina just stands on the sidewalk the whole time, staring fixedly at them. Emma can’t put a finger on why she’s so unnerved by the woman’s strange behavior: is it because of Henry’s insistence that his adoptive mother is ‘evil’? 

Or is it simply because Emma never expected anyone to look at her gentle father with hatred in their eyes?

“Dad… do you know her?” she asks cautiously, and turns the truck on.

Her father just shakes his head, with a helpless expression. “No better than I know you,” he answers quietly, his voice little more than a murmur above the engine’s rumble.

Emma swallows, gritting her teeth, and pulls out from the curb. _God_ , she hopes he hasn’t had a stroke.

* * *

They make their way to the hospital without further incident, and are admitted an hour or so later.  David is placid throughout the examination, answering the nurse’s questions with bemused acceptance and smiling pleasantly at the doctor’s sarcastic jokes. Once Emma shows him his driver’s license (illegally obtained, of course, but unmistakably his) and pictures on her phone of the two of them, David admits that he has no other choice than to believe her. 

But somehow, David Shepherd is missing. And she gets the odd sense that he isn’t really a man called David Nolan, either: he’s a blank slate, a stranger who remembers nothing of their life.

“Sorry, honey,” says the blonde doctor at last, casually tossing his stethescope over his shoulder, and sniffs, putting his hands on his hips and giving her a pitying sort of look. “Can’t find anything wrong with your dad. Not physically, anyway. Preliminary MRI results are normal. But, then, nine times out of ten, memory loss is purely psychological, so...”

He sounds dreadfully disappointed, but Emma lets out a deep breath, trembling in relief, and squeezes her father’s hand. This appears to be the final confirmation that David’s brain is just fine. Physically speaking, anyway. 

“So basically, find a shrink?” she asks.

The doctor shrugs, giving David a once-over. Emma's father is seated on the side of a neatly made hospital bed, his feet planted firmly on the tile floor and his hands calmly resting on his knees. “Probably a good idea,” the doctor answers, and heaves a sigh. 

Emma dislikes the man deeply, has done so from the moment he dramatically threw aside the curtain and entered the examination area with a yawn. He smells suspiciously of bourbon, that pukey sour-mash smell that Emma can’t stand. And she nearly decked him when they were on their way to the MRI room and she observed him casually patting a nurse’s behind. But since he’s the only doctor on staff at this time of night, they don’t have much of a choice. 

Emma exchanges a glance with David, who shrugs, unbothered. She clings to his hand, overwhelmed with grief and worry and exhaustion. “So what’s next? Do you want him to stay overnight?” she asks.

Making a face, the doctor shakes his head.  “Nah. You said you’re from Boston?” he asks. As soon as she nods, he throws the curtains aside again and saunters backwards from the bed. “Just drive back tomorrow and find a specialist there,” he suggests, brows high, and waves  _ ta-ta _ .

And like that, he’s gone. Four hours of waiting, and she has no answers at all. Emma heaves an irritated sigh: at least they only charged her fifty bucks for a consult. Apparently the cost of the MRI was covered by some kind of community insurance.

“Could have at least given us a referral,” she mutters.

David lets go of her hand and eases off the bed, finding his feet easily and stretching. Emma watches him closely, but the doctor is right: his balance seems good, and he’s clear-eyed, his face relaxed.

“That’s that, I guess?” he remarks, with a wry expression.

“Yeah,” Emma answers. Her throat feels dry: it’s been a long time since those pancakes, and all she wants to do is drink about a gallon of water and crash onto a soft mattress. “So… do you want to drive back down to Boston tonight?”

She walks out of the examination room, David pacing alongside her. He lets out a long breath. “I don’t know,” he admits. His brows are knitted now, and he looks deeply uncomfortable. “Emma, I guess I have to believe you when you say you’re my daughter, and we live in Boston, but… this town feels like home, somehow. Like I shouldn’t leave.”

Emma swallows. She strides down the hallway, her boots tapping on the white tile floors. There are nurses bustling about, the beeping of machines, and the occasional crackle of the overhead speakers as they pass down the stairs and through the sliding glass doors into the waiting room.

At last she halts in front of the exit and turns to face her father. “We’ll see if there’s a motel or something here, then, and at least stay the night,” she says with resignation. “I should probably go back and talk to Henry’s mother in the morning, anyway.”

David has his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. He stares at her for a moment, then nods, with a guilty look. Emma lifts her hand, ready to slide her hand through his elbow, a gesture so familiar as to almost be genetic - then with a twist in her guts, she remembers that he barely believes he’s her father. She slowly puts her own hand in her pocket.

“Come on, then,” she says shortly, and whirls on her heel toward the exit.

All she sees is a flash of white in the corner of her vision, then she’s colliding with someone in a splash of flowers and cashmere. Emma rebounds back, staggering for her footing for a moment, before David’s hands gently catch her by the arms and right her. 

“Oh, my goodness!” exclaims the person, and Emma looks up to see a petite, dark-haired woman of about her own age. “I’m so sorry!” the woman adds, brushing at the water and flower petals on her shirt. She’s holding a vase of white lilies, which almost match the color of her old-fashioned fuzzy cardigan.

“No, my fault, I wasn’t looking,” Emma responds, feeling a bit dazed, looking down at the water on the front of her own jacket. “Hope I didn’t crush your flowers.”

There’s no answer, and she glances up. The stranger is staring behind Emma, eyes wide in her small, sweet face. The woman opens her mouth to say something, but closes it. 

“What’s, uh…?” Emma begins. But she trails off - the woman is plainly staring right over her shoulder, at David.

She turns to see her father’s expression; a wave of shock passes through her at the warmth and shining soft wonder in his eyes as he stares down at the woman. There’s a long silence.  _ What is it with people staring at my dad today? _ she thinks furiously.

Finally, Emma clears her throat, unease trickling through her chest. “Dad, do you… have you met?” she asks faintly, gesturing to the woman.

Her words seem to break the spell. David blinks and glances between the two of them. “I don’t… think so?” he answers uncertainly.

He forces a smile at the woman, who clears her own throat. “No, we haven’t,” she says, brows creased in confusion. “And I think my flowers are just fine. I’m, uh… I’m Mary Margaret. I’m a volunteer here.”

She tucks the vase of flowers under one arm and holds out her free hand to Emma, dark eyes sharp. Warning bells are pinging in the back of Emma’s mind, but she accepts the woman’s firm, soft handshake. 

“Nice to meet you,” she responds. “Emma Shepherd. This is my dad, David.”

She points to her father, belatedly kicking herself: he’s not exactly himself today. David just offers a friendly smile, eyes still warm, and reaches out to take Mary Margaret’s hand. 

“Pleasure’s mine,” he says softly. The other woman’s cheeks go red, as if David had planted a debonair kiss on the back of her hand instead of shaken it. 

“Sorry again about crashing into you,” Emma says cautiously. “Dad, I guess we should get goi - ”

“ _ David!” _

All of them start at the shrill exclamation that echoes through the lobby, and Emma whips around. Another young woman, this one tall and slim and blonde, is standing frozen in the entryway of the waiting room. She puts her hands to her face, covering the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“Oh, David!” she cries again, and comes pelting toward them, long legs flashing.

There’s a moment when Emma wonders whether the woman is angry or simply upset; then the new stranger throws her arms around David’s neck, practically jumping onto him in an effort to hug him, and begins kissing his cheeks frantically. Emma’s father grunts in surprise, haltingly returning the embrace.

“Dad - ” Emma exclaims.

But she’s cut off again by the woman, who has drawn away and is now clutching at her father’s hands. “Oh my God, it’s you, it’s really you,” she cries, blue eyes brimming bright with tears of joy. “David, where have you been? Regina said she saw you earlier, and you were headed here, but I didn’t even believe it until just now… it’s been so long...”

Feeling helpless, Emma glances over at Mary Margaret. The petite woman is staring, her face a curious mix of embarassment and distress. Her hands are clutching the vase of flowers hard enough to make her knuckles stand out.

David seems to be fumbling for words, his own face a picture in miserable confusion. “Dad!” Emma says loudly, catching his attention.

The blonde woman turns to stare at her. “Did you just call him  _ Dad?” _ she says sharply, and looks up at David. 

_ She can’t be more than ten years older than me _ , Emma thinks, incredulous. For one insane moment, the thought flashes across her mind that this woman is her sister: that her steadfast, conscientious father has been spawning children all over the country.  And worse, that a mystery sister is the reason David was on the lam when he found Emma herself in Minnesota. The idea makes her nearly choke.

David, meanwhile, is still standing frozen, his brow puckered into lines of deep confusion and discomfort. “I, ah,” he says helplessly, and clears his throat, pulling gently away from the woman. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

A nasty little jab of satisfaction stabs under Emma’s ribs as the woman’s face crumples. “David, it’s me. Kathryn, Kathryn Nolan,” she insists tearfully. “Your wife!”

With a painful clench, something bursts inside Emma. “His  _ what?! _ ” she exclaims.  There’s a long silence, irritation and disblief bubbling in the air. The lobby is silent around them; everyone is watching the spectacle. 

Emma shakes her head, trying to tamp down the seething rage at this woman - this  _ young _ woman, someone fifteen or twenty years younger than her father! - tenaciously claiming to be his  _ wife _ . David is staring in horror at the woman named Kathryn; at least he looks as confused as Emma feels.

She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she says caustically to Kathryn, stepping in front of David to separate them. The woman is staring at Emma with wide blue eyes, hands clenched. “I don’t know what kind of game you people are playing in this town, but this man is my father, not your husband. I have lived with him for twenty-odd years and have never heard your name, not even once. On top of that, he is not feeling well, so we are leaving. Now.”

Emma turns and weaves her arm through her father’s, then pulls him toward the door. He offers no resistance, clearly stunned, his face flushed a deep red.

The sun has long since set, leaving the parking lot outside lit only by the eerie orange glow of sodium lights. Emma stomps towards the truck, practically dragging David behind her.   _ Fuck this town and everyone in it _ , she thinks furiously, and rips the keys from her pocket to unlock the vehicle.  _ We’re going back to Boston _ .

As her father silently clambers into the passenger’s side of the truck, Emma thinks briefly of little Henry. Her heart is still jagged with shock and pain, her stomach roiling with the guilt of leaving without even saying goodbye.  But given the choice between taking care of her father and reconnecting with a son she gave up ten years ago, Emma refuses to hesitate.

She climbs into the driver’s seat and slams the door. “I changed my mind. I think we should just go home,” she says shortly, and puts the keys in the ignition. The truck’s engine, thankfully, turns over immediately, rumbling into life with a throaty growl.

David sighs in response and leans over, then puts his head in his hands. “I know her… I could swear I know her…” he mutters.

Emma frowns and jams the truck into first gear. “Who, Kathryn?” She feels her face flaming just at the memory of the blonde woman’s face, the absolute  _ certainty _ in her eyes as she cried,  _ Your wife! _

Her father shakes his head. “No, the woman you ran into. She said her name was Mary Margaret,” David says, and groans, falling back against the seat. “I… that name sounds  _ wrong _ , though. And I don’t know  _ how _ I know her, or from where.”

Emma doesn’t know how to respond to that. So she stamps on the gas, and they peel out of the parking lot. She heads back down the town’s main street. The dark-haired woman’s name is still scratching at the back of her mind: where did she hear it? But she ignores it, gunning the engine and tearing through town and past the buildings, away from the sea.

They’re soon out of town, pelting into the dark evergreen forests and away from the streetlights. Glancing over, Emma sees that David’s quietness is belied by wild eyes and a flushed face. He’s leaned against the window, chest heaving. “Dad, put your seat belt on,” she says softly.

He lets out another shaky sigh and begins reaching for the belt, his expression still blank with distress. Emma suddenly sees that he’s got something on his lap. It’s the kid’s book, its letters gleaming faintly in the moonlight. 

_ Sneaky little bastard.  _ Henry plainly left it in the truck just for her. She opens her mouth to reluctantly ask David whether they should turn around - but abruptly a flash of white from the road catches her eye and she jerks back to attention.

“Shit!” she yelps, and slams on the brakes at the same time as she yanks the wheel to the side to avoid the giant fucking  _ wolf _ standing in the middle of the darkened road. 

There’s a shudder as the wheels slip on the wet asphalt; her father shouts something, but the words don’t penetrate through Emma’s cloud of panic. Before she can correct her steering, the truck screeches off the road and onto the shoulder with a painful bone-rattling quake, the cab a roiling kaleidescope of disjointed vibration.  Then there’s a blinding crash, and everything comes to a halt.

Emma blinks a few times, her stomach convulsing, her head pounding. She shakes her head, trying to clear the fog, and blearily looks around the cab, which is suddenly whistling with the cold autumn wind. The truck is stalled, the engine ticking and the headlights at crazy angles; they’ve smashed right into the  _ Welcome to Storeybrooke _ sign.  It’s quiet, almost alarmingly so.

She wriggles, grunting and trying to loosen the seat belt that’s cutting into her chest. She tongues her lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood; of course there’s no airbags in this goddamned death trap, she must have smacked her face off the steering wheel.

“Dad,” she says hoarsely, squinting and trying to make out the far side of the darkened cab. “Dad, are you okay…?”

Wincing in pain, she reaches up and snaps on the overhead light in the cab; like a gunshot, cold fright blazes through her. “ _ Dad! _ ” Emma screams, and yanks fervently at her seat belt, jamming at the release button with numb fingers. 

Finally it pops open, and she kicks open her door, staggering as fast as she can around the front of the truck.  David is lying facedown across the hood, his head and broad shoulders sticking through the smashed windshield, the rest of his body still draped over the dashboard inside. 

“Daddy,” she sobs, and reaches out toward his face. His cheek is pressed to the hood, tiny shards of glass gleaming in his skin and blood slowly beginning to ooze from the wounds. 

But her hands are shaking; drawing back, she rips off her coat to drape it over him. As she puts a hand in front of his face, she can feel his breath. “Daddy, I’m so sorry. Please… please hang on,” she whispers.

It seems to take forever for her numb fingers to find the cell phone in her pocket, and to dial nine-one-one. She gulps as the line rings, trying to get control of herself, choking back sobs at the sight of her father lying motionless and bleeding on the hood of their truck. 

At last a calm voice answers. “Nine one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“T-truck crash. My dad is hurt,” Emma says, gasping. She fights against tears again, and adds, “We’re just outside Storeybrooke. I swerved to miss a… an animal on the road, and he didn’t have his seat belt on, and… oh, God...”

She breaks off, putting a hand over her mouth, and leans against the truck, adrenaline and terror and guilt spiking through her and making her lightheaded. “Okay, we’ll send someone right away,” says the dispatcher soothingly. “Where did you say you were again?”

Emma swallows, and reaches out with trembling fingers.  “Storeybrooke. Storeybrooke, Maine,” she says automatically. “Right on the edge of town, going down the main state route. We hit the Welcome sign.” 

A large piece of glass has made a jagged cut on her father’s forehead, blood streaming freely from it down into his fair brows. She carefully plucks the glass out and presses her hand over the wound, heedless of the sticky blood that coats her fingers. Absurdly, she remembers the time she was twelve years old and fell off a swingset, smacking her head against a rock. What had David said then, about head wounds bleeding worse than others?

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. “Storeybrooke. Huh,” the dispatcher says at last, bemused. “I’m not… we don’t have any record of a town called Storeybrooke in our system. Just, uh… hang on, let me make sure you were connected to the right dispatch center, okay? Don’t hang up, I’ll still be on the line.”

Emma clenches her teeth to keep from screaming, and clutches the phone so hard she can feel her fingers digging into its case. There’s a clicking of keys from the dispatcher, an endless tapping in her ear. 

It’s started to mist down rain ever so slightly, and she quickly leans forward, putting a protective arm over David’s body so that he’s shielded from the water. “It’s gonna be okay, Daddy,” she says hoarsely, her voice cracking.  

Her father’s eyes are closed, and she can feel a fine shiver running through him. Is it shock, or cold, or a seizure? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know  _ anything _ .

Finally there’s a cleared throat and a crackle on the line. “Okay,” the dispatcher says. “For whatever reason, the town of Storeybrooke isn’t in our records. But it’s showing up fine on mapping, and it’s within our dispatch area, so I’ll have a local ambulance sent out right away. Now, I’m going to talk you through what you can do before it gets there, okay?”

Emma responds in monosyllables as the dispatcher leads her calmly through the situation, asking questions, instructing her to adjust the coat so it covers her father’s head, check his pulse and talk to him as calmly as she can. And as the wail of sirens faintly grows in the distance, she finally realizes that there’s no sign of the gigantic wolf. It must have run off into the woods after the crash. 

_ No one would believe me, anyway _ , she thinks miserably.


	6. Harrisonville, Missouri - 1995

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh - we're finally getting to the chapters I really wanted to write for this fic. Fixing things is fun, but I also just ADORE single daddy David and his princess.

When he finally jogged up the street, she was sitting on the school’s front steps , her mittened hands shoved deep into her pockets and her beanie pulled low on her forehead. David gritted his teeth, breathless and trying to swallow down the lump in his throat, mixed relief and guilt buzzing through him.  _ Oh, thank you, Mother _ , he thought faintly.  _ Thank you for looking out for us again. _

His footsteps echoed hollowly against the brick front of the building, and Emma’s head snapped up, her blonde hair flying. “I’m sorry,” he called hoarsely, holding his arms wide. “Emma, I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t say anything, just leapt to her feet and ran at him. All the breath went out of him in a  _ whoof _ as she barreled right into him, throwing her arms around his chest. He bent over her and hugged her tight, tears pricking at his eyes. He was supposed to pick her up nearly forty-five minutes ago, and had been frightened she would be gone, trying to walk home herself: or worse yet, that the teachers might have called the police. He had run almost all the way from the bus stop, excuses and lies foaming on his lips.

At last she lifted her head and stared up at him, eyes brimming with tears and bright with fury. Her cheeks were streaked with silver tracks; she’d been crying. “You forgot about me,” she accused. 

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” David answered, aghast, and knelt down to look up into her face. “I had to stay a few minutes late at work, so I missed the bus. I’m so sorry, I promise it won’t happen again.”

He had no right to promise any such thing to her.  With this week’s heavy snow, the rural buses were running late more often than not.  And the new calves would be coming any day now: that wouldn’t be a task he could so easily walk away from. Still, he had a practical knowledge of farming and a good touch with the animals, so at least he didn’t have to worry about the Bicketts simply letting him go without warning. Not like back in Duluth.

Emma sniffled, the anger fading from her eyes. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come in time,” she admitted.

Letting out a shaky breath, David rose to his feet and offered his hand to her. “I know you were,” he said in a low voice, smiling at her. “That will never,  _ ever _ happen, princess.”

She stared him down for another minute, then broke into a reluctant smile and swiped away her tears. “Good,” she said simply, and accepted his hand.

It was a brisk, bitter day, the wind sweeping thick clouds overhead and the broken sidewalks patchy with ice. They walked away from the school and into the nearby neighborhood, small prefabricated homes and trailers crammed cheek in jowl with ugly brick apartment buildings. A gaggle of children was playing on a ramshackle playground, whooping and screaming with joy as they whirled in circles on the merry-go-round. 

David glanced at Emma, but was relieved to see that she was just trudging along at his side, humming absently and ignoring the other children. They had been in this little town for nearly three months, hunkered down in a miniscule apartment during the worst cold snap in the state’s history, and he longed more than anything for spring to arrive. A new Wal-Mart had just opened up about five miles out of town, and David had been assiduously stuffing dollar bills into a rusty Cafe Bustelo can for the last few weeks, promising Emma that he’d let her pick out some new outfits and tennis shoes that actually fit. He himself could use another pair of boots - good waterproof farm boots with steel toes, not the worn fashion boots he’d left Storeybrooke in - but there wouldn’t be money for that.

“How was school today?” he asked.

Emma shrugged and kicked at a rock, sending it skittering ahead. “Pretty good,” she answered, hitching her backpack higher. David noticed that one of the straps was tearing. He’d have to fix that later. “The school spelling bee is next week.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” she said, with more confidence. “Me and my friend Julie are awesome at it, we’re totally going to win and go to the county bee. Can you practice with me later?”

“Of course,” David assured her. “But only if you practice with me, too. My spelling’s pretty terrible.”

His daughter gave him a sneaky grin. “I know, Dad,” she teased. It was their weekly challenge; he would buy a newspaper on Sundays and they would work the New York Times crossword puzzle together, she correcting his spelling and he giving her hints about the clues. David didn’t know much about his daughter’s peers, but Emma was certainly much smarter than he’d ever been as a preteen. _I barely knew how to read when I was twelve_ , he thought, with a grin.

They turned the corner, and Emma let go of his hand, running toward the little neighborhood grocery store to grab a shopping cart, tugging it free from the line. “My turn to drive!” she yelled, eyes sparkling.

“Okay, just don’t run anyone over,” David warned, grinning. The automatic door was busted, so he held it open for her as she carefully pushed the cart inside.

For all that it was run down and hardly ever had good vegetables in stock, at least the store was warm and well-lit. The beeping of cash registers and hum of fluorescent lights was a familiar comfort, and David closed his eyes in ecstasy for a moment, wiggling his freezing fingers and feeling the sensation return to them.

But there weren’t enough hours before his daughter’s bedtime, and he reluctantly opened his eyes, trudging forward into the store. “So, what do you want for dinner, peanut?” he asked.

Emma, busy scowling at a hideous half-brown head of cauliflower, turned to him with wide eyes.  “Can it be anything?” she asked, the corner of her mouth turning up slyly.

David grinned. “Sure. Just pick out the vegetable first,” he said, and waved a hand around the produce section. 

With a confident little “yess” of victory, his daughter was off, staring intently at price tags and shaking her head, marching down the narrow aisle. He followed her around the store, stifling yawns and smiling.  _ Hope you’re seeing this, Mom _ , he thought with wistful amusement, wishing for the hundredth time that his mother could be here to rejoice with him over her spirited granddaughter.  

At last Emma paused, reached forward into a display, and turned around, cradling an enormous gourd. “This,” she said confidently.

“Butternut squash, huh?” David said, and chuckled. “You want it like mashed potatoes, again, I’m guessing.”

“With butter and salt,” Emma agreed and, standing on her tiptoes, plunked the squash into the cart. “And I want hamburgers,” she added, tilting her head with wide eyes and her sweetest smile.

David sighed internally. But that was what he got for letting an eleven-year-old choose dinner; and besides, not having to  _ figure out  _ what he was going to cook was sometimes an unutterable relief. “Okay,” he said, and gave her a stern look. “As long as you help with the dishes.”

“Deal,” his daughter responded immediately, and grinned.

* * *

The chunks of squash were boiling in a soup pot and the nearly-cooked hamburgers were sizzling in his precious beat-up Revere frying pan when the doorbell buzzed, obnoxious and shrill. “Somebody’s at the door!” Emma yelled from the living room.

David rolled his eyes, grinning, and turned the burners down, then wiped his hands on a dish towel and quickly strode to the intercom. “Hello?”

There was a crackle, then a rather prim  _ Ahem _ . He wondered briefly if it was their landlord again, bugging him for the rent he wouldn’t have for at least three more days.

“Mr. Swan?” said a friendly female voice, in a syrupy drawl. “My name is Kate Pratchett, and I’m a services coordinator from Children, Youth, and Family Services of Cass County. I’m here with my colleague Terrence Alvarez. May we come in for a moment?”

The words didn’t register for a moment. Then David’s stomach seemed to contract into a hard ball, and his breath came short. “Uh, sure,” he said hastily, glancing frantically over at Emma. Luckily, his daughter was rapt in concentration, staring down at her homework with a slight frown between her brows. “Let me buzz you up.”

He stabbed at the entry button, and leaned against the wall for a moment, hardly able to breathe.   _ Not again _ , he thought faintly.

Forcing himself to move, he went back into the kitchen and clapped a lid over the burgers, turning the burner off. The squash was almost done anyway, and the hamburgers could rest for a minute until this was over. He reached behind his back to untie his apron - a hideous old thing from the thrift store, decorated with reindeers and dancing elves - but hesitated. Was it better to continue looking like he was in the middle of preparing dinner, or did it smack of posturing?

There wasn’t time to think about it. A loud knock sounded at the door, and he hurried over. The knock had caught Emma’s attention, and he nearly ran into her in the tiny hallway as she pelted toward the door. “It’s okay, I got it,” he said, as reassuringly as possible, holding out a hand. She hesitated, biting her lip.

The chain was broken, so he unbolted the door and jiggled the handle to release the lock. “Hi,” he said, trying to summon a smile for the social workers outside the door: a wide-eyed young Latin man who looked to be barely twenty-five, and a black woman of about his own age. “Come on in. Excuse the mess,” he added.

In fact, most of the apartment was tidier than usual, but David glanced at the kitchen, wincing at the sight of grease splatters and vegetable peelings on the counter. He reached out and pulled Emma close as the strangers entered. Her eyes were round and wary as she stared up at them.

“Thanks,” said the woman, unraveling her scarf from beneath a thick fluff of black hair. She smiled at his daughter and held out her hand. “Hey there. You must be Emma. My name’s Kate, and this here is Terrence, also known as Terry.”

Emma didn’t answer for a minute, but then she slowly extended her own hand. “Hi,” she said uncertainly.

Her hand was gravely shaken by the two adults. Kate glanced around for a moment, then turned to David. She was a pretty young woman, her snub features and dimples lending her face a sweet air.  _  Kind of makes it depressing that I’m terrified of her _ , he thought mournfully.

“So, we’ve gotten some reports lately that we need to follow up on,” she explained. “Mind if I go ask Emma a few questions? Terry will chat with you in the meantime.”

David didn’t bother asking who’d made the reports: they wouldn’t tell him. And he was fairly sure it was their landlady, anyway. “Sure. Emma, would you go with Ms. … Ms., uh…”

“Pratchett,” finished the woman for him, beaming. “But you can call me Kate. Can you show me your room, honey?”

David tried to smile again as his daughter gave him a wary look. She took a breath, then put on her most charming face and trooped off. He swallowed, pride and misery fighting within him at the sight of how her shoulders were squared solemnly beneath the worn, pilled cloth of her Wonder Woman sweatshirt.

The other man waited until his companion had disappeared into the hallway before he turned to David. “So, Mr. Swan,” he said, unsmiling. “Not sure if you know how this goes.”

David shook his head. “No, not at all,” he lied.

Terrence raised his brows. “Okay,” he said with a sigh, and unzipped his jacket, revealing a disconcertingly baby-blue polo shirt beneath. “Mind if I…?” He gestured toward the kitchen.

Suddenly remembering dinner, David whirled. He breathed a sigh of relief; the soup pot was boiling hard enough to bump and burble its lid, but hadn’t overboiled, and he reached out to turn it off. He took a hasty peek into the frying pan, but the burgers appeared to be fine. 

“Sure, sure,” he said hastily, pulling open the cabinet and yanking out a colander. “Sorry, I was kind of in the middle of making dinner. Do you… uh, do you want something to drink? Coffee, ice water…?”

“No, but thanks. We can talk while you finish up, if you like,” the social worker answered, waving a hand. 

Feeling horrendously self-conscious, David picked up the pot, poured the contents into the colander, and dumped the pieces of squash into a bowl, then reached for a fork to mash them. The social worker edged around him and leaned against the counter, opening up a folder and taking a pen from his pocket.  

“So, as Kate said, we had some reports,” Terry said quietly. “Unfortunately, we’re not able to tell you who made the report. However, I can tell you that they’re concerns of truancy. And, uh… malnutrition.”

The man raised his brows again, with an amused glance at the bowl of steaming squash.  David huffed a laugh, horror clenching his stomach.

He  slowly reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a stick of butter, cutting a few bits off into the bowl. “Wow. Uh,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, Emma’s a skinny kid, I don’t know what to say. I was the same way. She eats well and often, though, I can promise you that. I work on a dairy farm, so we get good fresh milk and cheese.” He put the butter back, glad that the interior of the refrigerator was, for once, clean and fairly full of food. “And sure, things are tight, but I make sure she’s always got lunch money.”

“Uh-huh,” Terry said, putting his hands in his pockets and leaning against the lintel, watching as David salted the squash, mixed it one more time, and set the bowl aside. “And the skipped school days?”

David nodded, and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Yeah, she missed a few days last month. She had the flu or something, so I let her stay home in bed.” He hesitated, then added, “And there were a couple of days this month she, uh… never got on the bus. I was at work by then, and she got in big trouble later.”

He tried to sound casual, although his nerves were jangling.  The social worker hadn’t written anything on his notepad, the pen still dangling loosely in his hand. For one insane, dazed moment, David wondered if the two were scam artists: if they were just posing as CYF workers. 

But then the younger man sighed. “Listen, friend,” he said, leaning forward, holding up a soothing palm. “I get it. With that new Congressional act, I’ve got some family that are nervous, too. But that has nothing to do with us, okay? You can relax.”

“Right,” David said, his mouth dry. “I… I appreciate that.” The last case workers hadn’t been so disinterested in his undocumented status.

He put his hands on his hips and let out a long breath, closing his eyes. “So, uh… do you want me to show you around, or something?” he asked, gesturing to the apartment.

The social worker shook his head, and gazed around, taking in the piss-yellow paint on the kitchen walls, the grimy ceramic sink with the broken garbage disposal and the ragged curtains beneath. “No, Kate’s taking care of that,” he answered. “Are you Emma’s biological parent?”

David clenched his teeth, the question like a knife under his skin. “Yup,” he said casually, knowing what the next question would be.

“And her mother is…?” Terry said, his face solemn.

Swallowing, David forced himself to nod, looking down. “Gone,” he said, then added, “Since Emma was a baby.” It was the same lie he told again and again to teachers, caseworkers, and cops.  _ Well _ , he thought, resigned,  _ it’s not  _ _ really _ _ a lie, when you think about it. _

His companion nodded. “Any idea where she’s living?”

David shook his head mutely.  No sense in half-answering that one: he’d searched for Storeybrooke on the maps of every library and travel agency he’d come across in the past few months. The place simply didn’t exist, according to cartographers.

There was soft laughter from behind them, as Emma and the young woman came back into the living room. “And is this your homework?” David heard Kate say.

“Mm-hmm,” Emma answered. She sounded happy, proud of herself. There was a flump from the couch, and a crinkle of paper. “Book reports for English, and a presentation on one of the Presidents for history. I picked Teddy Roosevelt, he was really cool.”

David swallowed, trying not to look at young Terry, and opened a bag of hamburger buns.  They were just the cheap white-bread kind that didn’t fit in the toaster, but they were the ones Emma loved, and had picked out herself. 

“Um, so do you want our phone number or anything?” he blurted, taking out a couple of buns and twisting the bag shut again. 

The social worker seemed to read his nerves, and talked him through personal details for a few minutes longer while the young woman quizzed Emma on schoolwork, kids, bullies, Girl Scouts, everything.  David pulled condiments and burger complements from the refrigerator, wishing he knew if this friendly chitchat was a good sign.

At last Emma herself flounced into the kitchen, her loose ponytail bouncing on her shoulder. “Is it dinnertime yet, Dad?” she demanded. “I’m hungry, and Ms. Pratchett says she’s done asking me questions.”

David exchanged a glance with the young woman as she came around the corner. Kate shrugged, smiling, and patted his daughter’s shoulder.  “Sure, princess,” he answered, and swept a hand over the arrangement of ketchup, mustard, lettuce, and cheap plastic-wrapped cheese slices. “Burgers are done – do you want cheese on yours?”

The response was a moue, then a definitive nod. He pulled down a plate and handed it to her. “Vegetables first,” he said firmly.

Emma rolled her eyes. “I know,” she complained. David smiled, and left her to load her own plate while he and the two case workers retreated to the living room.

“So what’s next?” he asked, crossing his arms.

Kate tucked her notebook into her pocket and looked over at Terry. The young man shrugged, and Kate turned back to David with a smile. “Well, we have to go back and write up our ‘official’ report,” she said, her dimples appearing as she used her forefingers to make air quotes, “but I don’t think we’ll be substantiating any of the claims against you, Mr. Swan.”  Her drawl transformed the title into a syllabic  _ Mis-tah _ .

The case worker tilted her head and added, “You might be struggling as a single dad, but Emma seems to be a happy, healthy kid.”

Her matter-of-fact tone struck a pang beneath David’s breastbone, and he found himself struggling against tears for the second time that day. “She is,” he said roughly. “And I am… trying my best.”

Terry reached forward and patted his shoulder. Kate smiled, pulling her sweater closer around her, and suddenly David wished he’d turned up the heat. Gas was so exorbitantly expensive this time of year, though. 

Emma swept back into the room, balancing her dinner with care. She’d stacked the cheeseburger high with lettuce, onions, tomatoes, and jalapeños, and had loaded the rest of her plate with squash. She set the plate on their little square Formica dining table, then looked up expectantly. “Are they staying for dinner, too?” she asked, eyeing the case workers.

Kate laughed. “No, honey. We’re just leaving. But it was nice to meet you.”

They all shook hands again, and in a haze David politely escorted the two strangers to the door.  He shut it behind them and leaned against it for a moment, his heart hammering like thunder in his chest.

Finally, he took a deep, shaky breath and went in to make up his own plate, then pour a glass of milk for both himself and Emma.  _ That was it _ , he thought dimly, his throat tightening.  _ They’re going to come for me sooner or later _ .  At least he’d managed to find someplace without a security deposit this time - who knew if the would be so lucky in the next town?

He took off his apron, carelessly throwing it onto the counter. His stomach was roiling, but he kept his face neutral and calm as he went back in with Emma.

She was sitting quietly at the table, staring down at her untouched food. David slipped into the chair across from her, waited a moment, then frowned. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Want water instead of milk?”

Emma shook her head, and he saw her throat work as she swallowed. “No, milk is fine,” she answered, and sighed. “Dad, am I in trouble?”

David shook his head, giving her a crooked grin. “No, princess,  _ you’re  _ not in trouble. They were here because they thought  _ I _ might be doing something wrong.”

His daughter lifted her chin, trying to appear nonchalant, but he could see her shoulders sag ever so slightly with relief. Dimly, he recalled that she’d been at school when the last pair of CYF workers showed up, back in Minnesota. They’d come by after complaints that she was wearing the same ill-fitting clothes to school two or three times a week, and had left after he reassured them that she had plenty of things to wear. 

The problem was nothing but his own idiocy: David had simply forgotten that people didn’t  _ do _ that in this realm. He’d worn the same clothes for days at a time as a child. Luckily, Nolan had quickly come up with a number of palatable excuses about broken laundry and not having time to get quarters from the bank. Since then, David had tried to be more attentive to the state of his growing daughter’s clothing. It was just so damn difficult to remember everything  _ all  _ the time.

Emma picked up her burger now and took a bite, nodding thoughtfully. “Why’ey fink ‘at?” she asked indistinctly. David gave her a sharp look; with another roll of her eyes, Emma swallowed the food. “Why did they think that?” she repeated, pointedly.

“Well, when CYF shows up, it’s usually because someone called them,” David explained, and picked up his own burger, eyeing it. But his throat still felt like sawdust, and he set it back down onto the cracked plate. “They were making sure I’m being a good father, that’s all.”

“That’s stupid,” Emma said, her fair brows creased in irritation. “Why don’t they go bother parents who are  _ actually  _ bad, and leave us alone?”

His heart fluttered briefly, relief trickling through him to hear his daughter affirm, even indirectly, that he was a good father. David sighed. “It’s… complicated. Don’t worry about it, okay, kiddo?” he said gently.

Emma eyed him for a moment longer, then shrugged and picked up her spoon to dig into the mound of squash on her plate. “As long as we don’t have to move again,” she said, face furrowed with irritation. “I promise not to skip school anymore. Really.”

David swallowed.  _ Don’t tell her, just let her be happy! _ screamed a little voice inside his head. He’d come to think of that voice as his alter ego’s; it would be just like Regina to fashion him a curse personality that was a waffling coward, after all.

So he told the little voice to shut up, then cleared his throat, punching back the misery inside. “We might have to move again,” he warned. “But hopefully not soon. And never,  _ ever _ because of you.”

* * *

After dinner, Emma held up her end of the bargain and stood next to him drying the dishes as he washed and rinsed them. Then she dragged him into the living room to practice spelling. David patiently read out words from the Scripps manual, marveling at his bright preteen daughter’s ability to spell ‘dalmatian’ and ‘February,’ and even more difficult words such as ‘lieutenant.’

“You’re a pro at this, Emma,” he said with admiration, after she had correctly spelled ‘culinary’ without even asking for the word to be used in a sentence. “All that reading obviously pays off.”

Emma rolled her eyes and huffed, crossing her arms. “Good, then don’t tease me for having my nose stuck in a book all the time,” she retorted. 

David laughed. “You’re right, kiddo,” he told her, slapping the booklet shut and handing it back to her. “Maybe I’m just teasing you because I’m a little bit jealous.  I’d have loved to be a bookworm when I was your age.”

“Why weren’t you?” Emma asked, interested. She carefully tucked the pamphlet back into her scruffy knapsack, and flopped down on the couch next to him.

David sighed, and put his arm around her shoulder. “My family lived on a farm, and my father died when I was a kid,” he answered. “And farms are hard work. So my mother, uh… homeschooled me in the evenings, since I spent most of my days outside working. There wasn’t much time to read for fun, for either of us.”

His daughter made a thoughtful little  _ hmm _ noise, and leaned her head onto his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, filled with such joyful relief that it almost hurt. That Emma still  _ wanted _ to spend time with her father - and even admitted he was cool, sometimes - was the warmest, most reassuring feeling in the world.  _ Even if it doesn’t last into her teens, I’m glad I got to experience it _ , he thought, firmly pushing aside the guilt that accompanied such selfish satisfaction.

A few moments later, Emma wiggled away from him and sank off the couch onto her knees. “Can I watch TV for a little bit?” she asked, looking up at him hopefully and reaching out toward the ancient appliance’s dials.

“Sure, go ahead,” David said, and yawned. “Nothing too violent, okay?”

“Okay,” Emma agreed happily, and twisted the television’s dial. The screen came on with a snap and a hum of static. 

David watched as she flipped through the channels with a series of snaps, finally settling on an old  _ Perry Mason _ episode. The exhaustion of the day (shoveling out animal stalls in the cold, shoveling pig scraps in the cold, shoveling a new latrine in the cold, and walking the perimeter of the farm for hours in the cold, to check fences and see how Snowbell had gotten out of her pasture again) was finally catching up to him, and he wanted nothing more than to lie back and watch the show with Emma. But if he wanted to be up and out of the door before dawn, he needed to shower and get into bed within the next hour or so.

Still, he sat for a few minutes, enjoying the sight of his preteen daughter curled up in front of the old television, chin resting atop her skinny knees and eyes huge as she watched lawyers yelling objections in a black and white courtroom. He wondered briefly if she’d settled on a career yet. For a while, she’d wanted to be a pop star. She was smart and damn good at arguing, though; she’d make a fine lawyer herself.

At last he sighed and levered himself up from the couch, pressing his hand to his aching back with a grimace, and trudged into the hallway. He’d taken the smaller bedroom; it wasn’t as if he owned many personal items, and Emma had been wide-eyed with excitement at getting a room so big she could do pirouettes across carpet. 

Pulling the top drawer of his dresser open, he pulled out a fresh pair of underwear. Then, hesitantly, he pushed aside the socks and reached toward the back of the drawer.

The thick stack of pictures was wedged into the corner, and he lifted them out carefully. This realm’s technology never failed to impress him; he could buy a tiny plastic box called a “camera,” lift it to his eye, press a button, and voila! a portrait (a  _ photograph _ , Nolan reminded him) was created inside, on a little piece of see-through film. Then he just took it to the convenience store and paid to get the film “developed” - whatever that meant - and he could have small paper copies of the portraits for himself.

David carefully leafed through the pictures. Nearly every single one had Emma in it; some were candid snapshots, catching his daughter in the middle of doing a cartwheel across the carpet, or staring thoughtfully at the bright television screen. Others she had caught him taking, and her face was split with a cheesy grin or a dramatic, goofy grimace.  She’d stolen the camera once or twice, too, so there were a few pictures of him, slightly blurry, sleeping on the couch or driving the beat-up old pickup truck he’d bought back in Missouri.

He paused on one of Emma tiptoeing on a split-rail fence, arms spread wide for balance, wearing a frilly pink romper dotted with bright white daisies. She’d squealed and begged for it at the thrift store last summer, and even knowing she would be grown out of it by the time the next summer rolled around, David hadn’t been able to resist. The daisies reminded him unaccountably of Snow.

He took a deep breath, sorrow and loneliness and grief winding heavy through his guts. “Someday you’ll see her, Snow,” he murmured to the picture, thumb grazing across Emma’s face. “We’re going to find you, and then you’ll have your daughter back, too.”

Of course, that might not be for another sixteen years. He carefully tapped the photos into a neat square and tucked them back into the corner of his dresser, then headed toward the shower.

The young social worker’s words lingered with him as he stripped and turned the squeaky knob to send out a stream of lukewarm, akaline water.  _ Emma seems to be a happy, healthy kid _ .

“And I’m going to make sure she stays that way,” he muttered, and stuck his head under the shower.

By the time he came back out into the living room, she had half nodded off in front of the television, leaning back against the couch with heavy eyes. “Time to get ready for bed, kiddo,” David said, scrubbing at his hair with the towel.

Emma yawned, but didn’t object. He watched as she got up from the floor, all gangly knees and elbows - she was going to hit another growth spurt soon, and he just hoped they could get out to the Wal-Mart in time. She obediently reached down and turned off the television. 

“Don’t forget, I have junior league volleyball tryouts tomorrow after school, so you don’t have to be there until four o’clock,” she reminded him.

David’s heart wrenched. _If we’re still here by the time the season starts_ , a little voice in his head sneered. _If you can even afford to buy her a uniform._ _If you’re not evicted by then._

He swallowed hard and told the little voice to shut up. Again. “Got it,” he answered confidently. “I’m sure you’ll do great, kid.”


	7. Storeybrooke, ME - 2011

Emma crosses her legs, then uncrosses them and slouches down into the uncomfortable chair, miserably rubbing at the aching small of her back. She’s been sitting in Storeybrooke General since eight o’clock last night, having fallen asleep in the waiting room sometime around midnight. A nurse had awakened her around one a.m. - Emma had started from her chair with a gasp, terrified, certain that she would be told her father was dead.

But the nurse had reassured her that David was doing all right, and escorted her back into the critical care wing of the small hospital. And so she's sat at his bedside for the last several hours, watching the sun rise through the windows and clinging to his hand.

She watches now as a cloud passes over the sun outside, the dappled shadows darkening David’s face. Oxygen cannula are looped beneath his nose and over his ears, and there’s a soft hiss from them as he breathes in and out.  He has neither stirred nor responded to any of her pleadings since the accident.

The nurses managed to get all of the broken glass out of his face, leaving a stippling of tiny red marks and bruises, the larger wound on his forehead covered with a neat white gauze bandage. But there's no hiding the neck brace cradling his shoulders and chin. Going through a windshield, the radiologist warned Emma, causes a hell of a lot of damage to the human body.

Barely able to catch her breath, she'd closed her eyes and lost track of what he said next; that David had sustained some kind of head and spinal injury, is all she can remember now. She had spent an unfortunate (and terribly ill-advised) twenty minutes or so searching the internet on her phone, looking up passengers who'd had head injuries in car crashes. She’d nearly chucked the phone across the room, weeping as she read statistics about of fatalities associated with passengers thrown from vehicles.

 _At least he’s alive_ , she thinks dimly, her fingers automatically clutching around his. _At least he’s still breathing._

After spending the first eight years of her life totally alone… the idea of losing her father now is sending Emma into a series of dizzy, stomach-twisting spins. Her father, the hero, is now struggling to survive. She was in Sunday school for at least awhile before her father took her in. Ironically, David - the man who shares a name with the shepherd who defeated Goliath, and the anointed man, wise in speech and brave in battle - was the one who excused her from the ubiquitously American necessity of Bible study.

From faith, from prayer... from hope.

There’s a tiny creak from the door, and Emma whirls, half-rising from her chair. “Oh, I’m sorry,” says the intruder, her voice an embarrassed squeak. “I was just… I bring around flowers to any new patients before I go to work, and…”

It’s the same young woman from the night before, Mary Margaret. She takes a timid step into the room, her short pixie cut shining glossy and black under the room’s harsh fluorescent lights. She’s dressed in another old-fashioned skirt, this time with a powder-blue cardigan, and is clutching a small vase with a single, beautiful daisy in it.

Emma stares at the little white flower in misery, hot tears welling up for no reason at all. Then she falls heavily back into her chair. She sniffles and puts her free hand over her face, unsuccessfully trying to choke back a sob.

“Oh, sweetie,” says Mary Margaret softly, and quickly crosses the room. Emma feels a soothing hand on her back, gentle pats. “I’m so sorry.”

Emma hastily wipes at her tears. “It’s okay,” she lies. Her voice cracks, though, and she clears her throat. “I’m just… I’m really tired.”

She is, in fact, her bones aching to lie down and her brain fuzzy with exhaustion and guilt and rage. _I’m not leaving, though_ , she thinks furiously, for the hundredth time. _Not until he wakes up!_

Her companion says nothing, just stands next to her, rubbing the palm of one hand in a soothing, almost motherly motion on Emma’s back. Emma reflects briefly that she usually can’t stand that kind of familiar gesture from strangers, but that somehow, it’s inoffensive coming from this kind woman.

“They, um, didn’t tell me the new patient was… was your dad,” Mary Margaret said tentatively. “I guess there was some kind of accident?”

Emma swallowed and nodded. Automatically, she raises her father’s hand to her lips and kisses it, clinging to his fingers tightly. “It’s my fault,” she says hoarsely. “He wasn’t wearing his seat belt, but I was still going so fast… I just…”

She pauses, her throat choking. She had just wanted to get away from this stupid _fucking_ town - especially its frightening, angry mayor, and the mysterious woman claiming to be David’s wife. Emma had spent half the night wondering if somehow, _somehow_ , Henry's awful adoptive mother had bewitched her into seeing a freakin' wolf in the middle of the road, and the other half wondering whether Kathryn would burst into the hospital room and demand that Emma be thrown out.

She shivers. It has not escaped her that perhaps Kathryn _is_ older that she looks - she’s sparely built, blonde, and pretty, much like Emma herself. And she’s from Storeybrooke. _Could she actually be…?_

Emma mentally shakes herself now, equal parts and revulsion and longing wrenching her heart. Little Emma had been a curious, demanding child, and as a result, David frequently described what her long-lost mother looked like - a small woman with flashing eyes, pale skin, delicate hands, luxurious black hair, and a beautiful, sweet voice. Kathryn Nolan has few of those characteristics.

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” Mary Margaret says softly, interrupting Emma’s miserable thoughts, offering her one more pat on the shoulder. “And Dr. Whale is very good at his job. I’m sure your father will be fine.”

Emma looks up; the young woman offers a singularly sweet smile, which creases the corners of her warm, clear green eyes. Her small hands are clasped, and she’s absently twisting a ring on her right hand, a simple silver circlet with a green jewel set atop it.

There’s a faint, sudden _click_ in the back of Emma’s mind. She hears a small boy’s voice ringing out clearly against kitchen cabinets, a pair of brown eyes twinkling with confidence.

“What, uh…” she blurts, and clears her throat. “What did you say your last name was, again?”

Mary Margaret frowns. “Blanchard,” she answers. “Why?”

A jagged streak of ice flashes its way down Emma’s backbone.  _Blanche means "white" in French_ , she thinks blankly, the ancient memory of French 101 spiraling up to cackle at her.

But before she can say anything, a distant door slams, and she hears muffled voices. Turning toward the glass door, Emma sees that the mayor of Storeybrooke is stamping through the open ward and around the beds, toward her father’s room, her footsteps ringing with the angry snap of stiletto heels. Hustling closely behind her is the sweet-faced sheriff, who looks both uneasy and irritated.

Regina slams through the glass door and halts, her feet planted and her shoulders squared. “Where is he?” she demands, her voice cracking, and her eyes blaze as she glares at Emma. “Where is my son?”

Emma blinks, her mind a blank void of white noise. “Henry?” she repeats stupidly.

“Yes, _Henry_ , Miss Shepherd,” the mayor says furiously, and looks around the room with sharp eyes, as if expecting the boy to pop out of a closet. “He wasn’t in his room this morning, and I can’t help but think that it has something to do with you.”

“Well, you’re wrong. Last time I saw him was at your house,” Emma responds, irritable. She gestures to her father. “And I have a pretty good alibi. I’ve been here all night. With my dad.”

Regina opens her mouth, as if to retort something; then she stops, her face freezing as she sees David. She swallows, and seems to catch herself, putting her hands on her hips and glaring once more. “Yes, I hear someone damaged a piece of town property last night,” she says, her voice icy. “That must have been you two, I take it.”

Her tone is casually disdainful, her lip curled in smug scorn and her eyes cold at the sight of David, lying still and pale and bruised in the hospital bed. A white-hot fury is building behind Emma’s eyes, and she clenches her free hand so tightly that her nails dig into the wound where the glass cut her palm last night. Her breath begins to come quick, and she slowly rises to her feet.

There’s a quick movement, and the sheriff edges his way in between them. “Yes, Miss Shepherd and her father were in an accident,” he says softly, glancing between them with desperate eyes, and holds up his hands in a placating manner. He’d come to the scene of the accident last night, lingering in the background and helping to direct traffic as Emma, dazed, talked to the EMTs. “Perhaps we should take this outside, so we don’t disturb the patient?”

Regina’s eyes narrow, but she hesitates. The corner of one immaculately lined eye twitches, and for just a moment, Emma glimpses the worry behind the impotent rage. For some reason, it calms her down: perhaps this woman _does_ love Henry as fiercely as Emma herself would.

“Have you checked with his friends?” she suggests, trying her best to sound sympathetic.

It doesn’t work. The mayor just glares again. “He doesn’t have any friends,” she insists, and crosses her arms.

Emma frowns.  “Every kid has friends.”

“Well, not Henry,” Regina snaps. But somehow she looks even more uneasy, and she adds with hesitance, “He’s… kind of a loner.”

Exhaustion has wormed itself into Emma’s head, making her dizzy and cranky. “Well, check his email, I guess. Maybe he’s been talking with friends online,” she says, wrapping both hands around her father’s. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ms. Mills. I would offer to help track him down, but... I don’t really have time at the moment.”

Her heart wrenches at the thought of little Henry, on the run again from a mother he thinks hates him. But at least he’s probably somewhere in the town, and not catching a bus to Boston again.

 _And my place is here, with my dad_ , Emma thinks stubbornly.

The mayor makes a furious noise, and shoots a glance at Mary Margaret. “Shouldn’t you be at school, Miss Blanchard?” she demands rudely, obviously looking for someone on whom she can cut her tongue.

Mary Margaret recoils, and Emma is astonished to see the young woman go pale, her hand clutching around the vase with the daisy. “N-no, not for another hour or so,” she answers, looking at Emma helplessly. “I volunteer here before school. But if Henry shows up for class, I’ll call you, of course.”

Regina snorts with disbelief. “I certainly hope so,” she says, and tosses her hair. She looks at David again, and Emma is shocked by the look of haughty satisfaction on the mayor’s face.

After a short, awkward silence, Regina turns on her heel and leaves with a slam of the door, leaving the stunned trio in her wake. Emma slowly sits back down, fighting against tears. She’s beginning to see why Henry is so adamant about his mother’s lack of affection.

“I-I’m sorry about that,” the sheriff says at last, his soft brogue drawing out the vowels of each word. Emma looks up; he’s wincing, soft eyes full of regret. “Mayor Mills is, uh… very protective of her son.”

He pauses, then holds out a hand, almost shyly. “I know it’s not very good timing, but, uh… I’m Graham. Graham Humbert. I’m the Storeybrooke sheriff.” He rolls his eyes, with a wry glance down at the badge on his vest.

Emma accepts the handshake, half-heartedly pressing his warm, calloused fingers. “Emma Shepherd,” she says. “Listen, I feel really bad about Henry disappearing, but… I just can’t leave my dad.”

She looks over at David; his face as still as marble, no expression in those passive brows and long lashes. She wants to get up and crawl into the bed next to him as if she were a little girl frightened from a nightmare, to lay her head on his shoulder and feel his strong arm comfortingly go around her. _Please, please wake up, Daddy_ , she thinks, almost frantic with miserable need.

The young man’s brow furrows, and he makes a dismissive gesture, putting his hands on his slim hips in a way that reminds Emma painfully of her father. “I understand,” Graham answers confidently, and gives her a gentle little smile. “And I wouldn’t ask you to. I’m sure the lad’s all right. He won’t have left town if he knows you’re still here.”

Emma sighs. She glances down at her messenger bag. “I still have his book,” she says dully, gazing at the worn corners of the leather cover, sticking out between two of her bail bonds files. “I guess I should give that back to him.”

She eases the book out of the bag, and sets it on her lap. It’s a heavy thing, all gilded pages and rich leather, and she wonders where on earth it was published. No one makes books like this anymore.

Mary Margaret heaves a sigh, and Emma looks up to see the teacher shaking her head, cheeks burning. “What?” Emma asks.

“I never should have given him that book. God, I swear, it was such a mistake,” Mary Margaret answers, with a pained expression. Crossing around to the other side of the hospital bed, she sets her single flower on the bedside table and clasps her hands, almost wringing them, looking absently down at David with a small frown between her brows.

Emma blinks. “That’s right, you’re his teacher. You gave him the book,” she says, wondering. “And he thinks you’re…”

The young woman huffs a laugh, and sits down in the spare visitor’s chair opposite Emma. “Snow White. Yeah,” she says, with a wry tone and holds her hands up helplessly. “He’s been driving himself crazy trying to figure out who my Prince Charming is, though.”

A trickle of insane laughter squeezes its way up Emma's throat, and she trembles, gulping it back down. No.  _No_. She can't think about that, let alone acknowledge it, or look at her father. She simply... can't.

In the meantime, Mary Margaret heaves a sigh. “Henry’s such a special boy - creative, smart, kind. He just… he’s lonely. And he’s been seeing Dr. Hopper for counseling, but I gave him the book, too. I thought it would help.”

Emma frowns. “How’s a book supposed to help?” she asks, mystified.

Henry’s teacher gives her a cautious, almost apologetic look. “Well, what do you think stories are for?” Mary Margaret says. “Especially the classics. There’s a reason we all know them. They’re a way of helping us deal with our world, even if it doesn’t always make sense.”

Shaking her head, Emma laughs humorlessly, looking out towards the open ward, now peaceful in the wake of Regina’s departure. “Yeah, his mother’s kind of a hardass,” she mutters.

Mary Margaret looks surprised. “Well, it’s more than her,” she hedges, tilting her head back and forth. “He’s just like any other adopted child - he wrestles with that most basic question they all inevitably face. ‘Why would anyone give me away?’”

A flush begins creeping over Emma’s face, and from the corner of her eye, she sees the sheriff grimace, shifting uncomfortably. “What?” Mary Margaret asks, catching Humbert’s expression as well.

Emma takes a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. I’m… Henry’s birth mother,” she explains, unable to keep the corner of her mouth from turning up in a bitter little smile. “That’s how I have his book, and why Regina thought I’ve… kidnapped him, or whatever. He came and found me in Boston, saying I had to break the curse. Dad and I brought him back here yesterday.”

Tears begin pricking at her eyes again. They’d just been doing what was right - David was a good man, an honorable and loving man who had just wanted to protect a little boy. It was so _unfair_ for him to be lying in a hospital bed in a strange city, unconscious, injured, maybe permanently!

She chokes on a sob, her hand clenching on his. She can feel the callouses on his palms and fingertips, the result of decades of hard labor, long days of working on farms or mopping floors or clinging to the back of a garbage truck. He’s the hardest-working man she’s ever known, and she can’t possibly have thanked him enough for giving her her childhood back.

She stares at David’s face for a moment, and lets the madness creep in. What would he be saying right now, if he were awake? Would he be eagerly embracing the young woman who sits next to him? claiming that Mary Margaret Blanchard, a woman barely older than Emma, was his wife? his one true love - Snow White?

 _Christ, it sounds even stupider now than it did back in Boston_ , she thinks miserably.

“I’m - oh, I’m so sorry, Emma,” Mary Margaret breathes, and Emma sniffs back her tears to look up and see the other woman wearing a mask of absolute horror. “I didn’t mean to imply that - oh, goodness, I’m certainly not judging you.”

Emma huffs a laugh. Whether or not the poor woman had insulted her is barely worth thinking about, in light of everything else. “It’s okay,” she answers, weary.

She glances up at the sheriff. He was there last night; he already knows just how casually she dumped off a ten-year-old boy with his adoptive mother and fled the scene. But Humbert gives her another gentle little smile, as if to say that he doesn’t judge her either.

“Look, when I gave him that book, I wanted Henry to have the most important thing anyone can have,” Mary Margaret says fervently, almost desperately.

Emma raises her brows in silent query. “Hope,” the young woman says simply, and gives a little shrug. “Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing.”

The words strike like a dagger through Emma’s heart, leaving her breathless. _Always hold onto hope, princess_ , David would say, smiling at her with his strong, gentle hands on each of her shoulders. _If you’ve got hope, nothing in the world can stop you from finding your happy ending._

She stares at the other woman, whose eyes are glowing with love and the warmth of compassion. “You know where he is, don’t you?” Emma asks, her heart sinking.

Mary Margaret nods, and rises from her chair. “I think I should probably go check Henry’s castle before I head to the school,” she says, and looks to Humbert. “Sheriff, you should probably come, too. The Mayor… doesn’t exactly like me. I’d rather you be there when we find Henry.”

The young man nods and shifts, heading toward the door. As Mary Margaret passes her, Emma realizes something. “Wait,” she says, and reaches down and pulls the storybook from her bag.

Rising, she hands it to the schoolteacher, giving her a bitter smile. “Tell him…” she begins, then trails off. What on earth could she possibly say to Henry? That she doesn’t believe him? Or worse yet…. that she sort of _does_ believe him, but that it’s much more likely that they’re both going crazy?

Mary Margaret just smiles and accepts the book. “I’ll tell him you said hello, and to go to school today,” she suggests.

Emma chuckles weakly. “Sounds good. Thanks.”

* * *

She falls asleep in the chair for a couple of hours, waking only when her stomach grumbles and starts to throb with hunger. Venturing down to the first floor, she finds a cup of coffee and a vending machine, and immediately returns to the room to munch on a granola bar. The sun has come up, streaming through the hospital windows in a brilliant arch of cheery light.

There’s an outlet near the chair, and she plugs in her dying phone, then reluctantly tugs one of her textbooks out of her messenger bag. “See, Dad,” she says to him, wryly. “You’re not even awake to bug me, but I’m still studying.”

Not that there’s much point in studying. Her databases exam is supposed to start in less than an hour, all the way back in Boston, and she doubts her professor will let her take a make-up test. Which means she’s most likely going to fail the class.

Still, anything to keep her mind busy is a welcome excuse to stop staring at the wall. She opens her folder of notes and starts drafting another outline, reviewing the concepts and jotting down a few simple programs to try once she’s near a computer again. Trying to get her college degree in a part time program while working full-time has been the hardest experience of her life, even with David at home cooking dinner almost every night and doing most of the laundry (and the dishes and the cleaning, if she’s going to be honest). But if it helps her get out of bail bonds work, it’ll be worth it.

It’s nearly noon before someone comes into the room; it’s the sheriff again, eeling into the room and wearing a smile. “You found him?” Emma asks, relief softening the hard knot in her stomach.

Humbert nods, his eyes twinkling. “Aye, he was at his castle - er, the jungle gym he’s fond of, down by the shingle,” he explains. He’s holding his leather jacket draped over his arm, and with his arms crossed, it makes his muscular shoulders seem broad. “Mary Margaret gave him a talk, then took him to school with her.”

He shifts, and she sees that he’s carrying something beneath his arm. It’s the damnable book again. “The lad made me promise to bring this back to you,” he says, and shrugs, offering it to her.

Emma is tempted to throw the stupid thing straight into the garbage. But all that would do is hurt Henry’s feelings. And, possibly, her father’s - whenever he wakes up.

Suddenly, she notices that there’s a ribbon sticking from one of the pages: Henry must have left it there. Her fingers tighten on the binding, and she glances over at David, still unconscious. She sets the book on her lap and flips to the bookmarked page.

It’s a second picture of the baby named Emma - but not the one Henry showed her back in Boston. Her breath seems to stick in her throat.

After a moment, she manages to inhale shakily. “I know this is a weird question,” she says tentatively, her voice rough, “but… would you say this looks like anyone?”

She turns the book up so that Humbert can see the illustration. He obligingly leans forward, frowning - then his brows shoot up. “Well, I suppose it looks a bit like Miss Blanchard,” he says, and blinks at her, bemused.

Emma bites her lip, and lowers the book back onto her lap, trying not to let her hands tremble. She stares at the page; in the illustration, the woman who is supposed to be Snow White is staring down at the newborn baby named Emma, her cheeks creased in a soft smile. She has dark hair, slim brows, and a sweet round chin.

And she doesn’t look “a bit” like Mary Margaret Blanchard. Long hair aside, she looks _exactly_ like Mary Margaret Blanchard.

Emma takes a long breath and lets it out. “Has Henry talked to you about this book at all?” she asks, her heart racing.

The sheriff shakes his head, crossing his arms again and leaning against the door frame. He really is remarkably handsome, with just a dusting of fair beard surrounding his chiseled lips, and blue eyes so dark they almost appear grey. “No. I gather he’s, ah… got a bit of a fixation on it,” Humbert answers carefully.

Emma sighs. “I’m starting to develop one, too,” she says, grumpy. “I mean, it’s insane. A kid I gave up for adoption _ten years ago_ shows up at my doorstep and tells me I’m in a story book. That my father is a prince, that the woman who adopted my kid is someone called the Evil Queen. And… and yet somehow, this town is just nutty enough that I’m starting to believe him. I get here, and the first thing I know, my dad can’t remember who he is. Then some strange woman is throwing her arms around him and saying she’s his wife. Somehow the idea that everyone in town is a fairy tale character doesn’t seem so crazy.”

Humbert makes a thoughtful _hmm_ noise. “Everyone in town, eh?” he says, amused. “Who does the lad think I am, then?  Not anyone wicked, I hope.”

Emma huffs a mirthless laugh. She flicks aimlessly through the book. “Hmm,” she muses. “I know he mentioned you.”

Then she remembers David, quizzing Henry on everyone’s identities as they were driving up from Boston, and it pings a faint memory. She flips back through the first few chapters

At last she finds the illustration she’s looking for. “I think he was under the impression you’re the queen’s Huntsman,” she says thoughtfully. “You know, from the Snow White story. The one who spares her life instead of bringing her heart back.”

She holds up the book. This illustration is less revealing; just a man in black clothing, holding a knife in one gloved hand so that it blocks his face. “Not much to go on, I know,” she jokes.

The sheriff smiles crookedly in response; then his face goes still. Emma can see his pulse beating quickly in his temple. She wants to ask what’s the matter, but the growing look of alarm on his face makes her hesitate.

At last his lips part slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He glances at her with wide eyes, and gives her a rather unconvincingly apologetic smile. “Uh… sorry,” he says faintly, and reaches up absently to tug at his necktie, as if it’s too tight. He stands up straighter, and fear flickers in his eyes as he uneasily stares back down at the book.

Emma swallows. “Do you… does it look familiar?” she asks tentatively.

Humbert doesn’t look away from the illustration; if anything, his gaze grows more intent. “I don’t know,” he answers quietly, his voice light and confused. “I don’t suppose it does, but somehow…”

There’s a long silence, interrupted only by the beeping of the machines and the hiss of the oxygen. Finally Humbert shakes his head and backs away, his movements jerky as he yanks his leather jacket back on.

“I should be off,” he says, and looks down at the floor. “Got a lot of things to do around town. I, ah… I hope your father pulls through all right, lass.”

He hesitates a moment longer; Emma, her heart wrenching, manages to give him a half-hearted smile. Looking ashamed, the sheriff bobs his head and shoves his way back out the door.

She stares after Humbert as he makes his way back through the ward. Through the clear glass windows, she watches as he pulls a cell phone from his pocket and dials a number, his hands shaking. He disappears back into the hallway, the phone pressed to his ear.

“God, what has that kid gotten us into, Dad?” Emma mutters.

* * *

She’s dragged back into foggy consciousness by the sensation of being shaken, a hand tugging at her shoulder. “Emma,” whispers a small, insistent voice. “Emma, wake up!”

“Wha-?” Emma mutters, drowsy and irritable. She blinks the bleary mist from her eyes and groans, sitting back from where she’d leaned onto the edge of her father’s bed, her head pillowed on her arms. She must have fallen asleep again.

Looking over, she sees that her interlocutor is little Henry, his brows clenched and his hands fisted at his sides. He’s glaring at her, feathery brows clenched in fierce anger.

“Henry,” Emma says, too tired to be upset. “What are you doing here, kid?”

She glances over at David, her heart sinking further as she notices the soft orange sunshine slanting through the windows. It’s already late afternoon, nearly a full day since the accident, and her father is still unconscious. There’s a soft, insistent beeping coming from one of the monitors, but she couldn’t have said which one it was. He’s still breathing, at any rate.

Henry, meanwhile, is still wearing his backpack and school clothes, and Emma wonders if he’s even been home yet.  “You tried to leave,” he says, angry. “ _Why_ did you try to leave? Bad things happen to people when they do that!”

Emma blinks again, mystified. Then she sees the gleam in the kid’s eyes, the flush in his cheeks. He sneaks a glance at David, then looks away hastily, his lower lip faintly trembling.

She suddenly realizes how confusing and overwhelming all of this must be for little Henry. Not only did he first meet his birth mother a mere two days ago, but now his biological grandfather (the only grandparent he’s ever known, apparently) is lying in a hospital bed, gravely injured. His adoptive mother is a cold, controlling harpy who has him enrolled in therapy, and even his sweet-hearted elementary school teacher seems to doubt his sanity.

And as grief-stricken as Emma feels at the moment, she has to admit: it’s been a long, long time since she’s felt lonely or unloved. _Dad made sure of that_ , she thinks, with a stab of painful gratitude. _And now he’s..._.

Tears prick at her eyes, and automatically, she holds out her arms. “I’m sorry, Henry,” she says softly. “I didn’t know.”

It’s all a blur after that, the boy throwing himself into her arms and crying on her shoulder, his sniffles close in her ear. Emma closes her eyes, her own tears suddenly overflowing and trailing down her cheeks. She rocks back and forth a little, hugging Henry tight and trying to repress her shivers in the cold room, hating that she _has_ to consider the possiblity that her dad might actually die.

She sniffs back her tears and looks miserably at her father. He seems to be even paler than he was this morning, all the ruddy health fled from his cheeks, and his eyes hollow. His hands are growing colder, too - an insufferable strangeness to Emma. Her father’s fingers have always been warm, even in the freezing snow of mid-winter Minnesota.

Finally Henry draws away, rubbing at his tears. “Is Grandpa gonna be okay?” he asks mournfully.

Emma shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I sure hope so.”

Henry sniffles again, his shoulders sagging. He stares down at the fairytale book, sitting on the floor next to her chair, and sighs. “I just wanted to break the curse,” he says, wistful. “I didn’t mean for anything bad to happen.”

Emma’s heart wrenches. “Oh, Henry,” she says softly, and draws a hand down his arm. “Don’t blame yourself, kiddo. My dad just... had an accident, that’s all.”

She thrusts down the sneering little voice inside her, a voice that tells her that if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s hers. Even if that’s true - she should have had her damn eyes on the road! - there’s no point in punishing herself. Not until David’s awake, anyway.

To her surprise, the boy pulls his arm away, looking angry again. “No, he didn’t,” he insists. “You tried to leave town, Emma. But my mom’s curse won’t let you. Grandpa got hurt because he tried to leave town.”

Repressing a sigh, Emma gives Henry a little smile. “Well, I’m certainly not leaving without him,” she says, trying to be reassuring. “Hopefully he’ll wake up soon, and remember who he is.”

“Yeah,” Henry answers confidently. “And then he can help me show you that the curse is real. We just need him to meet Miss Blanchard.”

Emma closes her eyes for a minute, struggling against the urge to reach for the book, and turn to the page with the illustration of a woman who looks just like Mary Margaret. It’s ridiculous - _beyond_ ridiculous - that she’s even taking the boy seriously, though. After all, her father and Mary Margaret have already met, and nothing magical happened. This book has to be some kind of crazy coincidence, or a bad joke.

“We’ll worry about the curse later, Henry,” she says wearily, and rises from her chair, glancing around. “Does your mother know you’re here? I’m guessing not.”

The kid looks down and shuffles his feet. “No,” he admits.

Leaning down, Emma picks up the book and hands it to Henry. “Come on, then. I’ll walk you home,” she says, looping her messenger bag’s strap over her shoulder, and casting a guilty glance at her father. It will only take a few minutes to walk the boy across town to the mayor’s house, then walk back - especially if she can manage to avoid getting into another argument with Regina.

Henry, however, is already backing away. “You’re just taking me back to her?” he demands, his brows peaked in shocked misery.

“I have to, kid,” Emma says firmly. “She’s your mother. Not me. I know… I know that you think I’m some kind of Savior, somebody you can count on to fix your problems, but… I’m not.”

Henry draws himself up, a full four-foot-six-inches’ worth of earnest, desperate child. “You’re just saying that because you gave me up,” he insists. “I know you feel guilty. But I know why you did it. To give me my best chance.”

Emma freezes. She swallows, trying to dispel the nausea rising from her stomach. _Why do you have to be so damn precocious?_ her mind screams. “How do you know that?” she asks, keeping her voice soft.

“Because it’s the same reason Snow White gave you up,” the boy answers stubbornly. “To give _you_ your best chance.”

Emma closes her eyes again, disappointment seeping through her. She kneels down so that she’s looking up into his face. “Henry, I’m not a storybook character,” she says tersely, clenching her fists to keep from taking him by the arms and trying to shake some sense into him. “I’m a real person. My parents are immigrants who sent me across the Canadian border in Maine. But the person who brought me got arrested and deported, and I ended up on the side of a freeway, bouncing around the foster care system until I was nine. My dad managed to come and find me, though. My whole life since then, I’ve spent with him. That’s my story, not some fairy tale.”

“But your dad is still Prince David,” Henry cries. “He said so himself.”

That catches Emma off guard for a moment, and she glances up at David. _Tell me whether I’m lying_ , he’d said back in Boston, his face soft and his eyes clear. _I’m Prince David, husband of Snow White, rightful queen of the Enchanted Forest_. She’s momentarily almost furious with him for leaving her alone with this wildly speculating kid.

“Okay,” she says, and takes a deep breath, shaking her head. The soft, insistent beeping from the machines has continued, but seems to be even higher-pitched now. It’s not helping her headache. “Okay, let’s say that he’s a prince, and I’m his daughter, and I got sent through some kind of… portal, or whatever. But Mary Margaret… Miss Blanchard, she’s the same age as me. How could she be my mother?”

“Because time is frozen here,” Henry answers immediately, his face brightening. “You know the clock in the middle of town, the broken one? It’s been frozen since I can remember. Nothing ever changes in Storeybrooke. No one ages but me. The town has been waiting for you to arrive and break the curse.”

“And how do I do that?” Emma counters.

Henry hesitates this time. “I’m not really sure,” he admits. “But when Snow White was poisoned, Prince Charming broke the curse with a kiss. True love’s kiss. So… maybe that’s how you break this curse, too? The same as your parents did.”

Emma frowns. She’s about to open her mouth and ask half a dozen more questions (who on earth is her “true love”? are _all_ the clocks in town stopped, or just that big one? how did her father escape the curse? why did the Evil Queen cast it in the first place?), when suddenly the beeping erupts into a piercing, repetitive shriek.

She whirls; one of the monitors above her father’s bed is blinking bright red, the alarm blaring from its speaker. “What is that?” Henry asks, his voice pitched high and frightened.

Emma is frozen, paralyzed in shock. As she looks down at David, a spike of terror shoots through her. He’s stopped breathing.

The door slams open behind them, making them both jump, and a nurse dressed in white scrubs hustles in. “Damn it,” he says frantically, crossing to the side of David’s bed. He inspects the monitor, then reaches down to take a pulse. He swears again, hastily jamming his thumb into a square red button on the wall. There’s a breathless pause.

 _Code blue, room two hundred_ , says a calm female voice, from the overhead speakers. _Code blue, room two hundred._

Emma finds that her arms have automatically gone around Henry, one hand drawing his head close to her, and he clings tight to her waist. “What’s happening?” she asks, her voice strident and hoarse. “What’s the matter?”

The nurse glances up and shakes his head. “Ma’am, you need to leave,” he insists. He’s thrown back her father’s coverlet and is lowering the head of the bed. “Please. The doctor should be here in a minute.”

She’s about to protest, furious; then there’s a little sob, and Henry’s arms squeeze tighter around her. “Okay,” Emma agrees. “Okay, we’ll go.”

They stand outside the room, watching through the glass as the nurse starts CPR. The blonde doctor dashes past soon, without even a glance at them, and draws the curtain around the bed. Emma wants to bang her hands against the glass and demand that she be allowed to see her father; to scream and shout to the heavens to save him. _Please, not my dad!_ she cries silently, gritting her teeth to hold back the tears. _It’s not fair - it’s not fair!_

But with her ten-year-old son clinging to her, she just silently stands and trembles. And when the doctor finally emerges, pulling off his latex gloves with a snap and looking grave, she is icy calm. She has to be  - for Henry, if not for herself.

* * *

Three hours later, she trudges up the steps to the bed and breakfast, her messenger bag heavy on her shoulder. Her legs are trembling with exhaustion and her heart aches. There’s a mild wind blowing through the bushes on either side of the porch, rattling the evergreens like a bees’ nest and gusting fallen leaves across the steps.

She opens the front door, and upon entering a dusty little foyer cluttered with pictures, is immediately greeted by raised voices. “.... out all night, and now you’re going out again!” says a harsh voice.

A tall, willowy young woman appears on a  nearby staircase, nimbly stomping down the stairs in platform heels and tossing her long, dark hair. “I should have moved to Boston!” she hisses up the stairs, and sashays past Emma without so much as a glance.

“Well, I’m sorry that my heart attack interfered with your plans to sleep your way down the eastern seaboard,” the first voice retorts, and its owner appears on the stairs as well. She’s an older woman, grey-haired and stocky, puffing as she also brushes by Emma.  

This must be Granny, as named on the placard swinging over the front porch outside - one of the nurses had suggested Emma try this place, in lieu of driving up to Bangor to find a hotel room. What he hadn’t mentioned was that apparently Granny’s Bed and Breakfast is a cesspool of family drama.

Emma represses a sigh: she’s too tired for this shit. “Excuse me,” she says mildly, and the old woman turns. “I’d like a room?"

Granny stares at her for a moment, as if flabbergasted. The young woman appears behind her in the doorway, furiously yanking a red scarf over her head.

“Really?” the old woman says, breaking into a smile. “Well, um… would you like a forest view, or a square view?”

She bustles back past Emma and behind the counter-flap to a bookshelf. Emma watches as she retrieves a key, and straightens up. “Normally there’s an upgrade fee for a square view, but in the interest of hospitality, I’ll waive it,” Granny adds.

Emma glances back at the young woman; she’s dressed as if for clubbing, in a short skirt and with plenty of makeup. Her gaze is filled with reluctant interest, though, and Emma begins to understand the heavy coating of dust on every surface - plainly, no one ever stays here.

She turns to Granny again and tries to force a smile. “Square view is fine,” she answers quietly. It’s not like she’ll be able to see her father’s hospital room from the window, anyway.

The old woman smiles, pleased, and pulls a register book from beneath the counter, then plucks an old-fashioned sort of pen from an inkwell on the counter. “Now,” she says happily, and looks up with eager eyes. “What’s the name?”

“Shepherd,” Emma answers, and watches as the woman begins to write it down. “Emma Shepherd.”

“Emma?” says a husky voice behind her, a stranger’s voice. Emma whirls.

She hadn’t heard the door open again, but there’s a man standing behind her - well-dressed, serene, and about her own height. He gazes at her with sharp eyes, his thin face framed by lank feathery hair, and a corner of his mouth quirks into a sarcastic, feline sort of smile.

“What a lovely name,” he adds, his voice a soft Scottish burr.

Staring at him, Emma feels a slight chill pass down her spine. “Thanks,” she says, not sure how else to answer.

He smiles wider, showing the barest glint of a single gold tooth in that feral face. He’s not an unattractive man, per se, but Emma suddenly has the thought that she wouldn’t want to be alone in a dark room with him. She turns back to Granny, and is astonished to see that the old woman’s face has dropped into a serious, almost frightened expression.  

The innkeeper thrusts a thick wad of bills toward the man, offering them to him. “It’s all here,” she says sharply.

The man smiles, and leans forward to take the cash. “Yes, of course it is, dear. Thank you,” he says, almost reassuringly, and tucks the cash into an inside pocket of his suit jacket.

He turns back to Emma. She glances down to see a checkered shirt, the fat knot of a necktie, and a dark suit, before he speaks again. “Enjoy your stay,” he says softly, and favors her with another catlike smile. “Emma.”

Emma holds her breath and raises her brows, doing her best not to take a step back from those glass-cold eyes. Silently, the man turns away from her and pulls the front door open, leaning on a slim black cane. He eels outside and closes the door behind with a soft click, leaving the room chilly and silent in his wake.

Glancing back over to Granny, Emma watches as the hostess’s face relaxes in supreme relief. “Who’s that?” Emma asks, curious.

The old woman doesn’t reply, her lips going thin. “Mr. Gold,” says the younger woman, and Emma turns back to see the pretty brunette pulling back the front window curtain with one slim hand. Her lips are pressed tight, too, her dark brows peaked. “He owns this place.”

“The inn?” Emma asks, confused.

“No,” Granny says darkly. Her face is once more uneasy, and she looks back to Emma with a serious expression. “The town.”

They’re all silent for a moment. Emma doesn’t know what to say to that, either. Is this Gold some kind of mobster, or is he just rich?

Then the old woman waves her hands, as if to brush away the heavy air of apprehension, and forces another friendly smile. “So. How long will you be staying?”

Emma shrugs. “I… don’t know,” she answers dully. “Indefinitely, I guess. My dad’s in the hospital, and they’re not sure when he’s going to wake up.”

 _If ever_ , the little voice in her mind sneers. They’d managed to stabilize her father’s heartbeat, but had put him on a ventilator. Emma had sat for almost an hour listening to the pop-hiss of the machine, her father’s chest rising and falling in tandem with the quiet little noise, his lashes still against his cheeks and his hands cold. Nothing more they could do, Whale had explained gravely - brain activity is minimal, response to environmental stimulus is low, et cetera. If David isn’t breathing on his own soon, they’re going to do a tracheotomy for long-term care. Just the thought of it makes Emma sick.

The young woman has given a little gasp. “Oh no,” she breathes now, and hesitantly draws closer, letting the curtain drop. “Was that… was he in that accident last night? Out by the town line?”

Emma huffs a helpless little laugh. News travels fast in tiny towns, obviously. “Yeah. I was the idiot driving,” she answers, and shrugs weakly. There’s another gasp, this time from Granny. “And of course I’m fine, but he’s really… I mean, I guess the doctor did his best, but they don’t know if he…”

She trails off, and fiercely grits her teeth against the prick of tears. Damn it - she usually doesn’t get emotional in front of strangers!  But it’s been one hell of a long day. And with the news that David might _never_ wake up - that he might have sustained such serious brain damage that he’s already gone - she’s already losing the fight against hopelessness.

“Oh, honey,” says the young woman sympathetically, and softly tiptoes over. Slim hands grasp Emma’s shoulders, and she’s pulled into a gentle embrace.

Emma can’t help it; she leans into the taller woman’s hug, tears bursting out and dripping down her cheeks as she returns the hug. She feels another hand touch her back, the soft touch of a sympathetic grandmother. Absurdly, she thinks of Mary Margaret Blanchard. _What I wouldn’t give for an actual mother right now_ , she thinks miserably.

At last the younger woman lets go of her, and she sniffles, wiping at her face and feeling supremely embarrassed. “Sorry,” she blurts, and sobs a little laugh. “Sorry. I just… he’s my only family, and I’m worried I’ll lose him.”

Granny gently pats her on the back again. “Well, don’t worry too much,” she says comfortingly. “Your father will probably be just fine, honey. And we'll take care of you in the meantime.”

She bustles back behind her counter and switches the large metal key out with another, attached to a huge, ornate silver fob with the number _4_ in scripted letters. “I’ll put you in the room right across from mine,” she explains, and offers the key to Emma. “I’m usually downstairs during diner hours, but you can come find me or Ruby any time. Just go through that door there, and through the hallway is the back door for the diner.”

She offers Emma another kind smile, sweet and motherly, and Emma nearly begins crying again. But she manages to nod and take the key.

It’s a thirty-second trudge up the stairs to her room, the first on the left. Emma tosses her messenger bag into a low padded rocking chair, and flops down onto the bed without even looking around the dimly lit room.

She presses her nose to the floral pillowcase, which has been freshly laundered and smells faintly of lavender.  She doesn’t have a change of clothes and will have to go shopping tomorrow, since there’s absolutely no chance in hell she’s going to drive all the way back down to Boston for a few pairs of underwear and shirts. She also has to call the school, call her boss, call her _father’s_ boss, and make excuse after excuse as to why they’ve both gone missing. Her bank account is almost dry, and David’s latest paycheck is probably sitting uselessly in their mailbox, so if she ends up needing to stay more than a couple of weeks, she’ll have to find a job in town.

Worst of all, she knows Henry will be fighting tooth and nail to see her as long as she’s in Storeybrooke. She managed to get him back to his mother’s front door earlier without having to face Regina again, but she doesn’t dare kid herself that if she keeps interacting with Henry, the mayor won’t make her life a living hell.

But she’s too tired to even contemplate that problem now. Her consciousness begins to fade with a flittering buzz, her body melting into the nubbly old bedspread. “I can sleep with my boots on,” she mutters. The room is warm, overheated like an old lady’s parlor, so it’s not like she needs to crawl under the covers, either.

Just as the darkness begins to close in around her, the world going quiet and numb, she hears a sound. It’s the distant, deep toll of a clock, chiming a quarter after eight.

 _Ding, dong, the witch is dead_ , she thinks absurdly, and falls asleep.


End file.
